


Red Card

by bagelsbitch, blue_marauder



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Fluff, Football, Football Player Harry, Football Player Louis, Hate to Love, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagelsbitch/pseuds/bagelsbitch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_marauder/pseuds/blue_marauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson has a "penchant for pranking" that has gotten him expelled from his previous five colleges. When he finds himself at Westland Academy with one final chance to make something of his life, he's not expecting to find people that actually mean something to him (let alone a green-eyed someone that he can't stop thinking about.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! We've never done this before, but we're both writers who are in love with H/L, so we hope you like our attempt at making something of it. :) 
> 
> This story will likely be long, but no one is really sure how long. There will also be all of the things we all love and look forward to about fics (smut, fluff, angst) in future chapters.

The sky the day Louis was expelled was a surprisingly clear blue.

It was never going to end well, and he tried to remind himself of that fact as the headmaster screamed himself purple. Tossing Posh Nicker in the lake had felt so right – it was like all of the tightly wound coils of frustration he’d kept inside him for months sprung free at once when he’d watched that idiot hit the calm, flat surface of the water. It was just before dawn, and the world was painted in deep, velvety violet.

The wanker had deserved it, mind. Louis wasn’t sure whether it was his smugness, or his belief that he could treat everyone however he wanted because his family had more money than the Queen. Perhaps it was his non-stop references to his parents’ “connections.”

It might just have been his stupid fucking eyebrows.

The bit with the fireworks had, admittedly, taken things a step too far, but Louis would never forget the brilliant colors that exploded in front of his eyes and the way the spray of the water blurred them together.

Though he had the decency to stare at his shoes in shame during the headmaster’s lecture, Louis couldn’t stop his mind from wandering outside, underneath that cloudless sky. It was the first warm day in ages, and he ached to be beyond the panes of glass, downing beer and kicking footballs with the lads until the sun disappeared.

A few words floated into his brain, rudely interrupting his daydream. Words like “enough” and “absurd” and “last straw.”

“This is it, Tomlinson,” the headmaster said. “You are henceforth expelled from St. Barbara’s.”

All of the air left the room. Visions of picnics exploded. Puddles of beer everywhere.

“S-sorry, Sir?”

“Did I mumble, Mr. Tomlinson?” Triumph rippled through the headmaster’s words like an undercurrent.

Louis finally looked up at him. He wished he hadn’t. The fact that a person could physically turn that shade of aubergine and still be breathing was something he felt he didn’t need to know.

Headmaster Davenport had never liked Louis, especially after that unfortunate steak-and-kidney pudding incident last year. Old Davenport had been reluctant to even admit Louis to St. Barbara’s after he’d been kicked out of the previous five prestigious college he’d attended.

The problem with Louis, as his stepfather always said, was his “penchant for pranking.”

But Louis was nothing if not brilliant, and he was bursting with potential. So, Headmaster Davenport had, against his better judgement, overlooked Louis’s disciplinary record in favor of the young man’s wit and academic success. A decision he quickly came to regret.

The time of reckoning had come at last, and Louis had been found wanting.

“The rest of you will receive ten demerits each,” Headmaster Davenport continued, looking around the room at Louis’s cohorts. He was successfully pretending that he hadn’t sent the world crashing down around Louis’s ears. “And you will serve Saturday detentions for the next six weeks. Now, get out of my office.”

Louis was surprised to find that he still had legs when he stood up. He made his way shakily out of the office, his life stretching blankly before him.

* * *

 

**1 month later**

**_**September, 1985** _ **

The room is plastered in color.

Long, swooping lines tangle with colored brush strokes, some thick and heavy, some wispy and barely there. Louis stares at them with trepidation. His chest feels constricted.

He tries to tell himself, as he takes in the patterns and colors and lines, that he’s done this whole “starting over” thing enough by this point that it shouldn’t be so hard. Walking into his new dormitory shouldn’t make him want to vomit up his tea.

A boy is sprawled on one of the twin beds, head propped up on a pillow, staring blearily at Louis.

“Weren’t you supposed to be here, like, an hour ago?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Louis replies. The tightness in his chest makes his voice sound uneven.

The boy blinks at him, and then folds himself into a seated position. “Right,” he says.

Louis relaxes slightly when the boy doesn’t comment further. His last roommate, Toby, had thought he was a nuisance, and had reprimanded Louis constantly for things like tardiness.  And for stuffing his used socks inside Toby’s pillowcase for a fun surprise.

Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

“I’m Louis,” he says, rooted in the doorframe.

The boy nods. “Yep, I know.” He runs a hand through his dark hair and stretches.

“And so, you’re Zayn?”

“2 for 2,” the boy – Zayn – finally grins, and it changes his whole face. His brown eyes form crescent moons.

Louis steps into the room, sliding his trunk along the floor in front of him with his foot.

“Did you paint the walls?”

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah, they won’t check. I’ll just paint it over with white in the spring.”

"Aren't these buildings ridiculously old?" Louis heaves his trunk against the opposite bed and hops over it, tumbling onto the bare mattress.

"I guess."

The bed creaks every time Louis shifts. He slides his legs open and shut like he's making a mattress angel. The gentle squeaks keep time with the pace of his thoughts. The mattress has valleys in unexpected places.

"Enough, that."

Louis stills. "Sorry."

Zayn isn't smiling anymore, but his face isn't cold and neither is the silence. He's staring at the ceiling thoughtfully, and Louis mirrors his gaze. Half of the ceiling is a solid blood red - the half over Zayn's side of the room. Louis's half of the ceiling is still a dirty off-white, even though the walls around Louis's bed are covered in colors and patterns.

"Ran out of paint, did you?"

Zayn glances at him and smiles again. "Nah. Wasn't sure what color would match you."

Louis blinks. He sits up. "Oh?"

Zayn shakes his head. "Still don't. Don't know you yet."

"What if you hate me? Will you paint the ceiling above my bed black?"

"Black wouldn't mean I hated you, it would mean you were a dark soul." Zayn's still smiling, still staring at the ceiling. It should make Louis uncomfortable, but, for some reason, it doesn't.

"Not following."

"I think we can rule out black," Zayn says. "And it wouldn't matter if I hated you. You can't live under a color that doesn't match you. It's stressful."

"Still not following." Louis wonders if Zayn is taking the piss.

Zayn sighs and stretches his legs out in front of him. Louis shakes his head and slides to the end of the bed. He crawls off and starts the lengthy process of trying to convince the combination on his second-hand trunk to open.

"But I think we can safely say that you're not off-white, either."

Before Louis can ask Zayn whether he's some sort of psychic-hippie who reads people's auras (which he might have done, given his utter lack of self control in all areas of life), there's a knock at the open door. Louis looks up from his trunk, which is still firmly closed. Blasted lock.

Another boy stands in the doorway, looking very official in a maroon blazer with yellow trim and khakis. He’s clutching a clipboard to his puffed-out chest. The sleeve of his blazer has ridden up to reveal a thick, silver watch, not unlike the one he was forced to purchase for Posh Nicker after he ruined the original during the lake-dumping. Louis tries to keep his expression flat.

"Ah, Lima Bean." Zayn's easy smile has returned.

Clipboard Boy's shoulders deflate visibly. "I asked you not to call me that."

"But it's a term of endearment," Zayn says, and it's only then that Louis notices the way his cheeks hollow when he speaks, making the angular bones of his face apparent under his skin.

"It's unprofessional," the boy in the doorway says. Louis rips his gaze from his new roommate's cheekbones and stands up.

Clipboard Boy starts as soon as Louis moves, as though he hadn't fully registered Louis’s presence. "Oh, yes. Louis Tomlinson?"

Louis nods, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"I'm Liam, I'm the floor assistant. Welcome to Westland! I live just down the hall and I'm around to help with anything you need."

Louis catches Zayn wiggling his eyebrows at Liam out of the corner of his eye. Liam's gaze doesn't stray from Louis' face, but his ears have a red flush to them that Louis isn't sure was there before.

“What’s this, then?” Louis asks, pointing at the badge on Liam’s blazer.

“Oh, Lima Bean is Head Boy,” Zayn says. His grin is in his voice, too.

Liam’s face wages a civil war between scowling at the nickname and continuing to shine earnestly. Earnestness wins out in the end. Louis feels himself soften around the edges from watching the genuine emotions play out across Liam's features.

"I am," Liam confirms. "And erm...so...there are a couple of things I'm supposed to go over with you, since you're new. But if now isn't a good time...."

Liam eyes Louis battered-yet-still-firmly-closed trunk with a frown.

"Now's great." Louis seats himself on the lid of the trunk, and after a moment Liam takes a few tentative steps into the room. He stands in the middle of the linoleum floor and shuffles awkwardly with the papers on his clipboard.

"Come on, then, don't be shy," Zayn says, throwing his legs over the side of his bed and patting his duvet, indicating that Liam should sit down. Liam does, but not without his face and neck going a bit pale, all the blood rushing to his cheeks and ears again.

"Right," Liam says. "Well. The dormitories are dry, even for students of age. So no alcohol in your room, or any other...erm...substances."

Liam grimaces, and Louis smiles at him in what he hopes is an encouraging way.

"Also, you're not allowed to bring any girls up here. If they catch you with one, it's a really big deal."

Louis smiles again. "That's not a problem."

Liam nods. "Right. And, well, technically..." He gestures helplessly around the room. "Technically you're not allowed to put any holes in the walls to hang things. But that's...well."

Zayn bumps his shoulder against Liam's. "Technically there are no holes in these walls, Leemo. So, technically, no rules have been broken."

Liam shakes his head in response.

"One last thing," Liam says, looking at Louis with wide eyes. His face emanates a kind of softness, despite the angular cut of his jaw, which makes Louis feel at ease even though Liam is a stranger who has the authority to reprimand him. "I'm supposed to take you to meet the Headmaster when you're settled in. Erm, no one would say why, exactly?"

Louis feels his smile slip, and he glances at his knees before meeting Liam's gaze again. "Eh, you know. Just want to check in with the new kid, I guess?"

"They don't normally..." Liam begins. Then he clears his throat. He stands up abruptly from Zayn's bed. Louis notices that Zayn is now scowling slightly. “Yes, I'm sure that's all. So, let me know when you're ready and I'll take you down," Liam says, straightening his papers.

Louis stands up as well. "Let's go now," he says. Louis has always preferred to get unpleasantries out of the way as quickly as possible.

\--

When Louis returns to his room an hour later, he finds it empty. But somehow his trunk is miraculously open, the lid swung back to reveal the wrinkled, balled-up contents of his wardrobe. He begins stuffing things into the empty drawers next to his bed.

He hangs up his new uniforms in the armoire near the window. Maroon and yellow, honestly. He’d thought the last place was bad, but this place’s bodily-fluid-reminiscent color scheme has him missing the blue and green tartan.

Zayn bursts back into the room after about an hour and flops face-first onto his bed. He’s wearing football kit.  His feet in studded boots hang limply over the edge of the mattress.

“All right?” Louis asks.

Zayn groans in response.

Liam knocks on the doorframe. He’s also wearing football kit, but looking much happier about it.

“Oh, you’re back!” he claps his hands together and grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Louis has never seen someone look so genuinely excited to see him before.

“I am,” he nods to Liam, then glances at Zayn, who remains face down on his mattress. Liam follows Louis’s gaze and frowns.

“It wasn’t that bad, Zayn, you’re just being dramatic.”

Zayn pushes himself off the bed and swings around to stare at Liam, his jaw falling open.

“Not that bad?” he echoes. “You made us run suicides for twenty minutes. Twenty. Minutes.”

He flops over again, burying his face in the duvet.

Louis says to Liam, “You’re the footy captain as well, then?”

Liam nods happily. “I’m not the best player or anything, but I’m alright. And I know how to get these lads organized and working together.”

Zayn mumbles something unintelligible against his mattress.

“Do you play?” Liam asks. He eyes Zayn’s form warily before crossing the room to perch gingerly on the edge of Zayn’s mattress without invitation. Zayn stiffens, and then pushes himself to a seated position in a way that Louis thinks is supposed to look smooth, but isn’t.

“Yeah,” Louis admits, plopping himself on his own bed. “Never in a league, or anything. But we used to have kickabouts a lot when I was at St. Augustine’s.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment.  Liam looks contemplatively around the room.

“Oh, thanks for getting my trunk open while I was gone,” Louis says. “It would’ve been a long, pajama-less night.

Liam snaps out of his reverie.  “Not a problem.  What did they want you for, anyway?”

Louis shrugs, going for casual even though the two pairs of eyes watching him expectantly making his heart thunder in his chest.  Their gazes are friendly, however, their eyes concerned even though they’ve only just met Louis two hours ago.

“I’ve been...a bit of a troublemaker in the past.  Mischief tends to follow me. They wanted to discuss my record.  You know, how they’ve given me a chance because I show ‘academic promise,’ whatever that means. Just a friendly reminder that the stunts I’ve pulled in the past won’t be tolerated here.”  He deliberately keeps his voice cheerful.

He stands up and stretches, his vision swimming as his wildly pounding heart pokes holes in his air of nonchalance. “The usual, really.”

Zayn smirks. “The usual? How many times have you gotten that speech?”

Louis shrugs again. “Four. Maybe five.”

“What on earth did you do to get kicked out of that many schools?”  Liam is scandalized.

“Various things. Last one was because I dumped this arsehole in the lake.”  He leaves out the part with the fireworks, not wishing to witness the ironic explosion of Liam’s head. Instead, he folds his arms and stares out the old window, the glass warping the glowing sunset outside, turning it to a watercolor painting. “He deserved it, mind you.”

Zayn cackles and falls back on the bed. He lets his limbs flop down.  He may have lost control of them entirely.  “Amazing.”

Liam’s face is waging war again, this time flickering between amused and appalled.

“Don’t worry,” says Louis. “I really, actually have to watch it this time. It’s my final year. And there’s really nowhere else I could go that would look good on CV’s. It’s kinda...this is my last chance to not screw up.”

Liam’s frown deepens for a split second before his face breaks into a wide grin. “I know what might keep you out of trouble.”

Louis cocks his head to the side, watching Liam smile and crack his knuckles.

“We really need more players.”

Louis blinks at him. “Football? That’s your magic solution?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’d be perfect!” Liam springs up off the bed and begins pacing around the room excitedly. Zayn shakes his head at the ceiling. “We need players, badly. We got crushed by Eton in the championship match last year and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.”

Something dark flickers across his sunny features, so quickly Louis nearly misses it.  Nearly.

“Plus,” he continues, “it would make you look good with administration. It would show that you’re getting involved, trying to make the school a better place.” He taps his chest over his football jersey, where his Head Boy badge rested earlier. “I know what they like. They’ll like this.”

Louis frowns, looking away from Liam and turning his eyes to the off-white ceiling above him so he can think clearly.  There’s no way he can give anything proper consideration if he’s looking Liam’s enthusiasm straight in the eye.

Then again, if he’s honest with himself, it doesn’t sound half bad. Especially if Liam and Zayn - two people he sort of feels comfortable with (which is more than he can say for most people he comes into contact with at these posh places) - will be there.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zayn is aghast. “Did you not hear what I said? Twenty minutes of suicide drills.”

Liam turns to Zayn. “You’ll thank me when you’re able to spend more than two minutes on the pitch per match.”

Zayn merely shakes his head.

\--

Louis’s first week of classes does not stand out from any other first week of classes at a new school. He can’t remember the last time he started at the official beginning of the school year, so he’s used to the awkwardness of having the professor introduce him by name to the rest of the class. He thinks he should probably have invested in some sort of New Kid sash to wear by this point - though, undoubtedly, it would have clashed impressively with the maroon and yellow blazer and black trousers he is forced to wear.

Zayn and Liam take pity on him in the canteen and make room for him at their table.  Though he has only known them for a week, he feels closer to them than he can remember feeling to anyone at his previous five schools. Obviously, it helps that he shares a room with Zayn (and therefore spends a lot of time with him by default), but Louis suspects that it’s something else about them. Maybe the fact that they treat him like they treat each other; they don’t, so far, seem to see him as an uncouth Yorkshire farm hand just because he’s from Doncaster and on scholarship.

It turns out that Liam’s accolades are not only limited to Head Boy and Football Captain.  Louis learns rather quickly that Liam is also Secretary of the Chess Club, Equipment Supervisor for the Badminton Team, and Volunteer Exam Proctor.  Someone like this Louis would typically hate.  But Louis doesn’t want to push Liam into a body of water, mostly because Liam works so hard and cares so much.  It wouldn’t be fun to laugh at him.

Zayn spends a large portion of his time in the school’s art studio. He’s a generally quiet person (he even moves quietly, at least when Liam isn’t around) and doesn’t talk about his projects unless Louis asks him about it directly - at which point he lights up brighter than Christmas.  When they’re together in their dormitory, they don’t speak much, but Louis doesn’t mind.  The painted walls are loud enough to blanket the silence in comfort.

Liam and Zayn also have an Irish friend who swings by the table every ten minutes or so during their lunch hours, but he doesn’t seem to actually sit anywhere.  Occasionally, he’ll swipe food off of Liam and Zayn’s plates without asking.  On Wednesday, the Irish kid takes some of Louis’s potatoes, so he thinks they are on their way to friendship, even though they haven’t been properly introduced yet.  Regardless, Louis enjoys watching him flit around the large, high-ceilinged hall, causing uproarious laughter at each table he visits.

When Louis’s last lecture ends on Friday, he slings his bag over his shoulder and thinks of nothing but the afternoon sun on his face and a cold pint in his hand. Classes have been okay and all, but, still, it’s the first week. He exits the lecture hall and blinks rapidly in the bright light of the hallway, the sun streaming in through the Gothic arch windows.

This place is sort of beautiful.  Of course, Louis thinks, everything is sort of beautiful on Friday.

“Louis!” At first, he isn’t sure who it is that grabs him abruptly by the wrist and drags him off to a corner behind a stone pillar. Once they’re in shadow, Louis recognizes his captor. Louis can’t read Liam’s expression - a tentative smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hi, Li,” Louis says slowly, after a moment of waiting for Liam to explain himself. “Wanna grab a pint?”

“Well, erm. Actually,” Liam says, gazing down as he scuffs his shoes against the stone floor. “I’ve got footy practice in twenty minutes, and I was - erm. I was wondering if you were coming?”

“Oh,” Louis says, frowning. He should’ve guessed there was an ulterior motive for this ambush.

“I really think it would be good for you, Lou, and we can use all the help we can get.” Liam’s eyes are pleading. As Louis looks into his shining, hopeful face, he can visualize the crestfallen expression that’s certain to take over his features if Louis disappoints him. His gut twinges at the thought, especially because his only valid reason to say no is that he’s keen on getting his blood alcohol content up to a more respectable level as soon as possible. Preferably with the help of a certain Miss Stella Artois.

“Alright,” Louis sighs. “Where’s the pitch, exactly?”

Liam’s grin threatens to break his face in half. “I knew it! I knew you’d say yes. Really, this is going to be excellent. It’s just behind the car park closest to McKinney. You can’t miss it.”

Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Liam is already jogging off. “See you in twenty! Don’t be late!”

Louis hitches his bag up and sighs again, regretfully changing direction from the pub on the corner of campus to the dormitories.  As he walks, he wonders vaguely if he even brought respectable footy kit with him.

\--

When Louis walks onto the pitch in the dazzling afternoon sun, wearing shorts that cling to his thighs just a bit too tightly because they’re from Year 12, he doesn’t see Liam or Zayn.

There is a cluster of ten or so boys in the middle of the pitch, and none of them are in any sort of hurry to warm up. One of them is still wearing his school uniform. Louis spots a lone metal bench to his left, where he quickly takes up residence. None of the boys on the field pay him any attention. He fiddles with the hems of his shorts.

“Oi!” a shout carries over the ridge, and Louis turns to see Liam stalking briskly across the car park, Zayn in tow. “Why aren’t you warming up?”

The boys don’t quite spring into action - it’s more of a belly flop. They continue chattering while making a show of bending over and stretching their hamstrings. The one who hasn’t changed for practice emphatically strips off his blazer and throws it on the ground. Louis has to bite back a smirk. A laugh carries over to where he’s sitting, and Louis recognizes the Loud Irish Friend.

When Liam reaches the middle of the field, he scowls at the team for good measure.  Then his mouth drops from an angry line to a hurt droop. “Where’s -”

Louis clears his throat and hops off the bench.  He jogs toward the group, a smile playing on his lips. Liam turns, catches sight of him, and positively beams. Zayn glances at Liam’s face and then drops his gaze to the dirt, kicking up dust clouds with his boots.

“Ah, here we are!” Liam claps a hand to Louis’s back. “Lads, this is Louis. He’ll be joining us as a centre midfielder.”

An impressive silence follows Liam’s words, during which Louis’s stomach begins doing acrobatics, until one of the boys finally speaks up. “Why’s he get to play such a top position when he’s brand new, eh?”

The boy who spoke is a raven-haired Scottish lad with the build of a rugby player. The boy stares at him, a hardness in his expression, and Louis feels a familiar itch creeping through his veins. The boy is definitely too big to drop into a lake, at least without plenty of help, but Louis could easily dig through the lad’s footy bag to find some ointment to swap with clotted cream. No one would even suspect Louis - approximately three people at Westland even know he exists, at this point. The congealed nerves in his stomach that have plagued him all week start to fade - his tense muscles feel warm at the very thought of getting away with something so simple, yet so satisfying.

All of the usual softness has disappeared from Liam’s kind eyes. He’s hard lines and a tight jaw, and Louis is painfully reminded of his stepfather’s face decorated with the same expression when Louis showed up on the doorstep of his home in Doncaster for the second time in less than a year. The pleasant buzz turns cold in his veins. He looks away from Liam and studies the grass.

“Because,” he hears Liam say as he scrutinizes the blades under his feet, “Louis played at St. Augustine’s. He’s good, and he deserves the chance.”  This, Louis thinks, is overly generous.  Liam hasn’t even seen him play yet.  “Unlike you, Rodgers. Need I remind you that you missed two practices last week?”

Rodgers mutters something that Louis can’t make out, but when he looks up from the ground, most of the other boys are smirking at Liam, like this Rodgers bloke being put in his place is the best thing that ever could’ve happened. Louis knows full well that Liam had bent the truth in regards to his skill level, but he feels a grateful warmth radiate through his body nonetheless.

As Liam runs a hand through his short brown hair and launches into an overview of what practice will entail, Louis feels someone watching him.

Louis scans the players’ faces until he finds a pair of bright green eyes boring shamelessly into his. He barely has time to process what the rest of the person looks like before he hurriedly drops his gaze to the dirt again.  It’s not that he finds the grass terribly interesting, it’s that he can feel a warm flush coloring his cheeks, and he hates himself for it.

When Liam finishes his speech, of which Louis registered approximately two words, and claps his hands together, Louis chances another glance up. The green-eyed boy has stopped staring at him, and instead has started talking to Zayn, his lips forming words that Louis isn’t listening to. His brain feels sluggish. Zayn laughs at whatever the boy said, and the boy’s face breaks into a wide smile that dimples at the edges, a smile so glittering that it could probably light up a room during a blackout.

The other boys have scattered on the pitch, jogging off to various positions, and Louis’s brain snaps back on. He recognizes the pattern and runs swiftly to his designated spot. He shakes his head while he runs and tries to clear the rest of the fog.  He brushes his hands through his hair a few times and then sweeps his fringe to the side, out of his vision.

Liam is already running across the pitch, directing plays from his place in the goal, ever the man of action. Louis darts to the center of the field and then backpedals, trying out his legs. His speed doesn’t seem to have suffered too much since he last played, though his breath is threatening to deteriorate into ragged gasps. The other boys move around him like a well-oiled machine.

The green-eyed boy runs near Louis and flashes him a friendly, dimpled grin. He has chestnut-colored curls that he’s pushed back with a brightly colored headband. Louis feels a lump in his throat, and for a moment his legs pedal beneath him as though he’s left the ground. He blinks hard, pausing in his stride, and then takes off again in the opposite direction.

He needs to get it together if he’s going to live up to Liam’s exaggerations.

By the time practice has ended, Louis has run past the boy no less than seven times on the pitch, and each time the boy gives him a grin that threatens to tear the ground out from beneath Louis’s feet.

Louis has no idea what his brain is up to today - the kid has to be at least a year younger than him, if not more, and he’s mildly clumsy. Louis has noticed him consciously adjusting his long limbs each time the ball comes near him.  His arms tend to awkwardly fly out whenever he approaches the ball, his face screwed up in concentration.  Though Louis notices he’s stumbled a few times trying to control the ball, he’s not bad, not at all.  He just happens to look like a colt chasing a butterfly.

Louis, on the other hand, blends seamlessly in with the group.  Sure, he’s gasping for air, but being back on the field is like riding a bike.  His muscles remember what his preoccupied mind can’t.

Liam dismisses the team to the showers at the end of practice with a distinct air of being proud of himself.  He tells Louis how excited Coach will be on Saturday when he sees everyone in action - apparently Louis has filled an important void. The entire team is light as they walk to the locker room, even after an hour and a half of running. Even Zayn looks pleased. Even Louis’s newly-appointed least-favorite-human _Rodgers_ looks pleased.

Louis stands in the small locker room, its cement walls and floor covered in peeling maroon paint. The air is musty. He plunks his bag on the wooden bench in the middle of the room.  He is rummaging through the bag for a clean shirt when he senses someone looking at him again.

He straightens up, clean shirt bunched in his hand, sweaty football kit clinging to his skin in all the wrong places. The green-eyed boy is standing there, still smiling exuberantly, and he’s _shirtless_.

“Hi,” says Louis, extending his right hand reflexively. His voice comes out in a breathless rush, and he forgets, unfortunately, that his right hand is the one his shirt is clutched in. It falls quietly to the floor.

“Oops,” says the boy. He bends over to pick up Louis’s shirt before Louis can even comprehend his next move. The boy’s back ripples with muscle when he straightens up.  Louis has to swallow down the excess saliva that floods his mouth.

He really, really hates himself sometimes.

“I’m Harry,” the boy says, holding the shirt out. Louis takes it.

“Louis,” he says.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_**September, 1985** _

Philosophical Theory is the kind of class that makes Louis want to hurt people who have been dead for thousands of years. Sleep teases at the edge of his brain - three football practices in a row over the weekend a la Liam have left his legs full of that thick, dull, almost ticklish sensation that lets him know he’s exhausted every cell in his bones.

Louis props his head on hand and allows his eyes to unfocus on the chalkboard in front of him as the professor drones on about what a right dick Descartes was. His mind floats aimlessly, images flashing under his drooped, heavy eyelids: the moment during practice yesterday (Sunday, the day of rest, not that Liam noticed) when he’d connected with the ball right in that sweet spot in his stride and before Liam had even begun to move into a block, Louis knew he had scored; one evening last summer when the air had been thicker than syrup and he’d blown bubbles for his colicky baby brother to try to distract him; the sweet laugh his brother let out when a bubble tickled his tiny nose.

His mind runs over the aftermath of a prank he’d pulled at St. Augustine’s, egg whites dripping steadily from the projection screen onto the floor, the feeling of being alive singing in his veins; flexing his toes in the cold sand when his stepdad had taken him to Blackpool Sands; the heat that had crawled up his throat and burst across his face while he tried to explain to his mother why his last girlfriend hadn’t worked out; a pair of green eyes boring into his with soft intensity in a locker room -

Louis’s elbow slips off the edge of his desk. Christ Almighty, where did that come from?

He glances around the lecture hall, noticing some students sliding their things into their bags, zippering and velcroing them loudly.

Zayn is staring at him.

“What?” Louis tells himself that he is not feeling defensive. After all, it’s impossible for Zayn to know that a certain acquaintance of theirs is hanging out in Louis’s subconscious.

“You’ve got drool on your face.”

Louis hurriedly runs the back of his hand across his lips. He gives Zayn a sheepish grin. “Yeah, you know, I’m only doing a philosophy A-level to impress the ladies.” The words taste like metal on his tongue.

Louis is actually doing this A-level because it was one of the few that still had an opening. Also, it generally fit into Louis’s who-the-fuck-knows-what-I’m-doing-after-college-anyway mentality.

Zayn is still looking at him bemusedly. Most of their classmates have already left, although a few boys are hanging around and talking. It had been the last lecture of the day.

“What? Did I miss some?” Louis’s hand goes back to his face.

Zayn laughs and ruffles Louis’s hair. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he says. He slings his school bag over his shoulder. “I’m starving.”

They walk down to dinner together. The tree-lined path from the classroom building to the refectory is littered with fallen leaves. Of all of the schools Louis has attended so far, Westland has charmed him the quickest. Solid, grey stone buildings, sloping green lawns, lovely local village pubs. Not that he’s had the time to get into one yet. But they are all sublime in their proximity.

The dining hall is crowded when Zayn and Louis enter. Liam has saved their usual spot in the back corner. Zayn and Louis weave their way there through the maze of tables.

Liam’s face is buried in a thick history book. He glances up when Louis and Zayn sit down and mumbles a quick “Hello” before reverting back to reading.

Loud Irish Friend sits down a moment later, his plate laden with no less than six slabs of roast beef.

“Niall,” Liam says seriously, looking up again from his book to stare at the feast his friend has prepared for himself. “You know that Westland isn’t experiencing a food shortage. You don’t have to eat five days’ worth of meals in one go.”

Loud Irish Friend - Niall, Louis knows now, though how he went through several practices and shared bites of food without catching his name will always be a mystery - just beams proudly and tucks in.

Louis watches with awe and respect as Niall conquers his food. “I think I like this one,” he says to Zayn. Niall hears too, though. He winks at Louis as he steals a sip of Zayn’s water.

Niall is finished before Louis even has a chance to eat a carrot, and then he’s off, bouncing around to different tables. Zayn pretends to not be watching the way Liam’s forehead creases with concentration while he reads. He isn’t doing a very good job. He keeps missing his fork on its way to his mouth. Liam doesn’t notice. He’s taking notes about the book he is reading on a small legal pad. His food remains untouched.

With his companions - friends? - preoccupied, Louis takes up his usual practice of watching Niall flit about like a hummingbird. He’s going to have to remember to ask if Niall uses Sun In, his hair is so artificially blonde and spiky.

When Niall stops at a seat three tables over, Louis’s gaze finds a head of dark curls and startlingly green eyes.

He blinks and abruptly sets his fork down. Zayn glances at him, his eyebrows raised.

“That guy on the team, Harry? The curly one?” Louis doesn’t look at Zayn as he asks. He keeps his gaze focused on Niall and Harry, who are now talking with animated hand gestures.

“What about him?” Zayn asks around a mouthful of vegetables.

“What’s his story?” Louis watches Harry as he giggles - actually giggles - at something Niall has said. Their contagious laughter rings out over the buzz of conversation that fills the hall.

Louis frowns and tears his eyes away from their amusement to look at Zayn.

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno much about him, really. He’s in the year below us, although I think he skipped a year at some point so he’s actually only 16.” Zayn picks up his water glass, his eyes narrowing when he notices there is only a sip left.

“Oh. Smart lad, then?”

“So I hear. Not bad at football, either,” he adds darkly. “Anyway, everyone likes him.” He looks at Louis like he was looking at his glass a moment before, suspicion etched into his dark eyes. “Why do you ask?”

Louis shrugs and picks up his fork. He shovels a too-large bite of roast beef into his mouth before Zayn can continue asking questions and clamps his lips around it, chewing slowly and carefully.

Something else flickers in Zayn’s eyes before he goes back to his full-time job of observing Liam. Liam, for his part, is frowning at his legal pad and does not seem to register that a conversation took place.

Niall suddenly reappears in his seat, his pale cheeks flushed and his glorious hair a tad messier than it had been. “What’d I miss?” he asks, producing a bag of crisps from god-knows-where and prying it open loudly.

Liam glances up from his notes. “You left?”

Zayn snorts into his vegetables.

\--

Louis’s lungs are on fire.

He tears down the football pitch under a wide sky full of puffy clouds, the smells of grass, dirt, and sweat mingling in his nostrils. He sucks air down his dry throat with conscious effort and wills his legs to keep moving. When he reaches the other end of the pitch, he stops, bending over with his hands on his knees. His thighs are uncomfortably pale in the sunlight.

He folds forward and grabs his ankles, feeling a delicious, searing stretch in his hamstrings. He’s putting effort into extracurriculars now, apparently. If only the lads from St. Barbara’s could see him. They would laugh themselves stupid at the idea of Louis caring about something enough to spend his free time doing anything other than guzzling beers.

Louis himself isn’t sure why he turned a corner. It’s not that he wants to impress his new friends. No, if he wanted to impress them, he’d just have to be his clever, hilarious self. He’d play a couple of attention-worthy pranks and call it a day. Much as it’s bizarre to admit, Louis might actually want them to like him, not just approve of him generally.

See, the thing is, the preliminary match is in one week, and Louis still has to catch his breath more often than his teammates. He’s doesn’t believe most of them have noticed, though he is pretty sure Liam has. Liam’s face hardens every time Louis staggers to the sidelines during practice so that he can stop and breathe. He kind of wants to be better so that Liam can have the football team he’s always dreamed of.

Not that Louis would ever admit that out loud.

He hears movement behind him and straightens up, his cheeks warming slightly at the thought of the view he’d been presenting. When he turns around, he’s met with striking green eyes.

Jesus, this kid is everywhere.

“Louis, hi!” Harry grins, jogging toward him and closing the gap between them. A football is tucked under his arm. “Lovely day, innit?”

“Yeah, it’s quite nice,” Louis agrees. His chest is still heaving slightly.

“Are you out getting some extra practice in as well?” Harry asks, his stupidly attractive smile never flickering from his face. Louis guesses that he plays forward on the field and in life.

“Yeah, you know. Just want to make sure I’m conditioned well enough.” Louis scratches his elbow absently.

Harry puts a hand on Louis’s shoulder.

“You’ll be great,” he says, and he holds Louis’s gaze for an extra second or two before he lets his hand drop.

Louis then stares determinedly at the football under Harry’s arm. “Cheers,” he says after a moment. That pause was too long and everybody knows it. His throat feels dry and tight. His left shoulder is burning after the contact. Traitorous left shoulder.

Somehow, Harry is still smiling at him. It’s so genuine that Louis can’t bring himself to look at it. “I was going to practice some shots, but if I’m in your way…”

Louis shakes his head. “No, I was just...I’m about done here.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He drops his football and rests his foot on it. “Okay, if you’re sure. I don’t mean to chase you away.”

“No, I’m - I’ve got - homework, so.”

Louis tosses a wave over his shoulder as he jogs off the pitch - he can hear Harry shout, “Bye, Louis, have a good night!” at his retreating back.

Louis walks across the car park with his eyes glued to the asphalt. His stomach clenches every time he thinks about Harry and his piercing green eyes and his sinfully innocent curls - it’s almost not fair that on top of all that, Harry is apparently a genius (not to mention one of the best football players on the team). And even when Louis brushes him off for reasons he can’t even explain to himself, let alone anyone else, Harry’s never been anything but friendly and polite to him.

Louis can’t stand it. He kicks a few rocks out of his path and they skitter across the pavement.

When he gets back to his dormitory building, he passes Liam. He’s on one of the communal phones near the common room. They wave to each other before Louis’s view is obstructed by a gaggle of Year 8 lads on their way outside. They’re jumping on each other and shouting and making fun of the smallest of their number, a little ginger boy. Louis watches them fondly. In a way, they remind him of his sisters, all energy and acne and toothy grins.

This building - where the lemony smell of cleaner mixes with that of sweaty teenager - has started feeling like home.

Back in the room, Zayn is lying on his bed, reading Bukowski, _Cemetery Gates_ by the Smiths pounding out of the boom box on his dresser.

Louis takes a quick shower and then tries to focus on writing an essay for his literature class. His thoughts keep straying. He taps his pencil repeatedly on the desk that he and Zayn share.

Zayn clears his throat.

“Sorry.” Louis replies. He sets the pencil down. Then starts drumming his fingers. Then taps his foot. Then fiddles with the paper in his notebook. He doodles shapeless blobs for a few minutes, the pencil scratching loudly on the page. Zayn coughs again.

Hopeless.

Louis throws himself onto his bed and considers the ceiling. It’s still off-white above him, the only blank space in the room.

 _How can they see the love in our eyes_  
_And still they don’t believe us_  
_And after all this time_  
_They still don’t believe us._

Zayn turns the page of his poetry book a little more forcefully than necessary.

Yeah, Louis definitely isn’t the only one distracted.

\--

Louis has decided that he doesn’t like Thursdays. Thursdays wear a mask of hopefulness - they’re almost the weekend, after all. But Thursdays never fulfill any of the weekend’s promises, of freedom and sunshine and rest. Thursdays are just like all of the other weekdays, except they wear taunting smiles that whisper everything Louis could be doing outside in the sunshine (or in the cozy, dark corners of his bed), if only they were the weekend. But they aren’t.

When the professor finally sets his chalk down on a sunny Thursday afternoon, Louis exhales a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Actually listening during lectures is exhausting - his knuckles are red from where he’d bitten down on them every time he’d caught himself imagining his hands twining through chocolate curls instead of taking notes. He is trying to train himself to behave. He is one of Pavlov’s Most Stubborn Dogs. His stupid shoulder still remembers the weight of Harry’s hand. Louis has to dig his fingernails into his own palms every time the thought crosses his mind, which has been behaving like an erratic circus of late.

This dull history course is not doing anything to help organize his thoughts. A beer (or several) might. But, then, he has football practice today.

September is still so warm, even in northern England. Sweat pools under the collar of his posh blazer as he packs his things, one of the last to leave the room. The sun streams in through the tall windows, and as he swings his bag over his shoulder he feels the sweat glide down his back. He loses track of it when it hits the inward dip of his spine, feels it moistening the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He reaches down and pops the blazer’s buttons open as he exits the room.

He can feel Zayn’s presence before he sees it. Zayn is a quiet calm, dark around the edges, that creeps into Louis’s skin and makes him feel loose and comfortable. Like the equivalent of a pint and a half (depending on the brew). Zayn has appeared at Louis’s shoulder and they fall into step together. Louis doesn’t say anything because Zayn is fiddling with his Walkman, his headphones secured to his ears. They pass through the wide oak doors of the building and step onto the uneven brick sidewalk.

Zayn has tugged his headphones down and let them rest around his neck. “We’re not going to footy tonight,” he says.

Louis glances sideways at him. “And why is that?”

“It’s too bloody nice out,” Zayn shrugs.

Louis breathes out a laugh. “Too nice to run around outside, you say?”

“Too nice to waste a night like this playing footy,” Zayn says, facing Louis and raising his eyebrows. “We’re going to have some fun.”

Louis examines Zayn’s face carefully. He doesn’t appear to be joking. “Zayn, far be it from me to put down a rebellion, but some of us would argue that footy is fun. Also, I can counter your argument with a single word. That word is ‘Liam’.”

Zayn’s face, contrary to what Louis expects, relaxes into an easy smile. “I’ve got a plan,” he says.

Two hours later, Louis is up to his knees in swirling, muddy water, watching three shirtless boys splash through a stream in the woods at the edge of campus. Their pants hang, wet and defeated, from their hips. Their shouts reverberate happily in Louis’s slowly calming brain.

Zayn and Liam are racing each other toward a slight drop-off (“waterfall,” they call it, but it’s just a fairly narrow a four-foot drop in the slippery rocks). They try to run through the shallow but swiftly moving water, slipping on rocks and sticking in unexpectedly soft patches of mud. Liam goes down face-first at one point - his skin creates a loud smack against the water, and Louis barely has time to worry that he has concussed himself before he scrambles up, laughing and covered in dirt from the streambed.

As it turns out, the woods on campus are the playground of the sixth form boys. Liam explained on the way over that this is one of Westland’s traditions. This area, the stream in particular, is hallowed. Liam knows this not only because he is Head Boy (and one of the requirements of being Head Boy in Liam’s mind is being an expert in all things Westland) but also because he is a legacy.

Louis can see why Westland boys throughout the years would want to hang out here. It’s the perfect place to get away from adult supervision, to let off steam. He already feels lighter, freer. Sunlight spills patchily through the canopy of rustling leaves above, creating beams of light that dance on the surface of the water. Aside from the splashing made by Liam and Zayn’s race (and their subsequent shouting), it’s quiet. Peaceful.

Niall ambles slowly along behind Liam and Zayn. He’s turning rocks over to search for whatever it is that lives under rocks in streams. He thrusts a fist into the air with a whoop at one point, and then holds his hand out to Louis to reveal some sort of small, slimy lizard. Louis grins, his arms folded across his bare chest. Niall looks pleased as he walks along, examining the creature in his outstretched palm.

Louis shuffles along, following the group, until they get to the “waterfall.” Liam manages to wade to the top of it first, and when he gets there he turns and grins wildly at Zayn, who staggers along just behind him.

“Face it lads,” Liam says, face flushed, when Zayn wrenches his leg out of the muck and steps up next to him, “I’m the true winner in this group.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and Zayn lifts an arm to tuck his grin into his bicep. Niall frowns and shakes his head.

“No way,” he says, the Irish lilt to his words filling a happy balloon at the bottom of Louis’s stomach. “None of you wankers caught a salamander, did you?”

All three of them crowd around Niall to examine the animal in his grasp, which thrashes desperately under his fingers. Niall relaxes his grip slightly and the thing leaps out of his hand, splashing swiftly back into the stream, disappearing into the murkiness below.

They watch the dust clear for a few seconds, the rushing water and the distant chirping of birds the only sounds that surround them.

Then, rather suddenly, Zayn slips past Liam, sits on one of the slippery rocks with his legs shot out in front of him, raises both arms and shouts gleefully at the sky as he glides swiftly down a short slide of weathered-smooth rocks and water and into the pool at the bottom. He’s submerged to his chest in freezing mountain water, but he grins up at them, daring.

Liam is, of course, next. He throws his legs out unceremoniously and lets out a kind of triumphant squawk as he splashes down next to Zayn in the pool. Niall throws himself down the slide face-first on his belly, his pale legs the last thing to slide, ungracefully, into the water at the bottom. He stands up a second later, completely soaked, blond hair plastered to his forehead.

The three of them look up at Louis, now, their expectant smiles almost identical. Louis stands at the top of the waterfall and tilts his face briefly to the clouding sky. He then takes a wobbly step backward, plants his front foot on a nice, solid rock, and launches himself over the edge. Three pairs of surprised eyes watch him as he falls, and three sets of arms are thrust out to catch him, and despite the fact that he is tumbling headfirst into cold water, Louis has never felt warmer.

\--

He has a freshly showered man in his bed. He should not feel as comfortable as he does about this. He should be running for the hills - instead, Niall has his body splayed across Louis’s mattress, one of his legs flung over Louis’s lap. Louis leans against the wall, wrapped in sweats, the chill from outside slowly seeping out of his skin.

The four of them are huddled in Louis and Zayn’s room, the sky outside getting grayer and darker with every passing minute. A few drops of rain plink lightly against the window, but their noise is drowned out by a rare burst of raucous laughter from Zayn.

“What do you mean, _who’s Morrisey_?” Zayn laughs from the floor, where he and Liam have dragged the duvet from Zayn’s bed. They are setting up the beginnings of a card game that looks far too complicated for Louis’s enjoyment. “I thought you lived down the hall, Lima Bean, not under a rock.”

Liam’s cheeks have gone pink. “I just - I mean - I don’t listen to that stuff, you know that.”

“Actually, who do you listen to?” Niall pipes up before Zayn can respond, his blond hair mingling with Louis’s pillows. (Again, Louis should really mind this more than he does.) “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you talk about it before.”

“Um, just like - I don’t know,” Liam says, his eyes on Zayn. “I like that song that’s been on the radio a lot lately. It’s like, ‘You put the boom-boom into my heart...’” Liam trails off and the pink tint to his face deepens at the look of sheer disbelief on Zayn’s face.

“Wham,” Zayn says. “You’re telling me you like _Wham_?”

Liam drops his gaze to the duvet. Louis watches his shoulders droop slightly.

“Hey, Niall,” Louis says, nudging Niall’s leg with his knee.

Niall props himself up on his elbows to look at Louis.

“You put the boom-boom into my heart,” he says matter-of-factly. Niall’s whole face lights up. Louis didn’t know it was possible for someone who had such a pleasant, friendly demeanor to begin with could look even more jovial. This, Louis realizes, is exactly why he doesn’t mind Niall’s presence in his bed. He’s a fucking ray of sunshine.

“You send my soul sky high when your lovin’ starts, Lou,” he responds.

“Come off it,” says Liam, and he’s still a bit pink, but he looks cheered. Zayn watches Liam carefully.

“Alright,” Zayn says with a determinedly world-weary eye roll, “I’ll just have to teach you the proper ways of the world, then.”

Liam’s brows knit together in confusion.

“I’ll make you a tape,” Zayn explains, “of some actual music you should be listening to. I’m going to take you under my wing, Leemo.”

Liam blinks at him. “ _You’re_ going to take _me_ under _your_ wing,” he repeats.

“Correct,” Zayn nods. And then he reaches awkwardly over the careful stacks of cards and pats Liam on the shoulder. “Also,” he says seriously, “That poster hanging on my wardrobe? That’s Morrissey.”

Liam turns to look at the giant black-and-white photo. A dark-haired man is pictured hiking up his shirt, the words “Initiate Me” inked onto his stomach.

“Odd,” Liam says as he turns back to Zayn, a smile creeping slyly across his face, “I thought that was you.”

Louis laughs so hard he snorts, and Zayn’s eyes go wide.

“Liam Payne,” he says, his voice tinged with amazement, “Did you just make a _sarcastic remark_?”

A knock at the door interrupts Liam’s gloating.

Louis hauls himself off the bed to open it, stepping carefully over Liam’s knee. When he wrenches it open, he is caught off guard by the smiling face (and _dimples_ , Good Lord) of none other than Harry.

“Oh,” Louis says. “Er, hi.” _Smooth, Tomlinson._

“Hey, Louis!” Harry grins at him.

“Haz!” Niall is suddenly beside Louis in the doorway. “Glad you could make it, mate. Did you run into any trouble?”

Harry tilts his head and gestures to the six packs he holds in each hand.

“Nah,” he says. “Nick actually volunteers to buy beer for me because I always give him an extra fiver.”

Niall claps his hands together and beckons Harry into the room. Harry doesn’t move. His eyes lock on Louis. “Okay if I come in?” he asks. “This is your room, after all.”

“I, erm…”

“Did I hear you say beer?” Zayn interrupts, and suddenly he’s there, too, pressed between Louis and Niall. “Excellent, do come in.”

Zayn and Niall usher Harry inside. Louis pauses and consciously blinks before retreating to his bed. He curls his knees up against his chest, like a shield.

“Sorry, lads,” Niall says as he plunks down on the floor next to Liam. “I forgot to tell you I invited Haz over. Hope that’s okay.”

Harry sets the beer on Louis’s dresser. Liam scrunches his nose at it.

“You know that’s completely against the rules, right?” he asks quietly. “Not to mention, like...Harry, you’re underage.”

Before a blushing Harry can say anything in his defense, Niall interjects lightly, “C’mon, Liam, live a little.” Liam’s brow creases more deeply. “We’re just having a bit of fun. In the safety of the dorms, no less!”

“But if we were caught…”

“We won’t be,” Zayn says. He winks as he hands a bottle to Liam, whose next objection seems to get lost on its way to his mouth, which is hanging open slightly.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry says, his voice slow as molasses and his words as sweet. “I understand. I can take it back...”

Liam softens. “No,” he says. He takes a sip of beer. “It’s okay, I just, as Head Boy, you know, I…”

No one really waits for him to finish his statement. Instead, Zayn passes a beer to Niall and opens one for himself before settling down next to Liam so they can resume their card game.

Harry’s hand brushes Louis’s as he hands him a bottle. “T-thanks,” Louis says. Even though the contact lasted less than a second, his whole hand is burning. Foolish hand. “You can sit down, you know,” Louis adds because Harry doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. “I don’t bite.”

Harry gives him a grateful smile before sitting down at the edge of Louis’s bed. And it’s nothing, _nothing_ , like having Niall sprawled out beside him. Harry sits back against the wall, a polite distance away from Louis, but Louis’s heart is still threatening to break free of his body. Which, why? Harry is some posh, golden genius. It shouldn’t matter that he has electricity in his large, warm hands, that his eyes are sparkling, that his dimples are outrageously darling. Louis has met enough of his type at his previous schools. Too charming for their own good, those boys were.

Louis downs his beer in three gulps.

“You want another?” Harry asks with a laugh.

“Uh, sure.”

Harry gets up to get it for him. When he sits back down, he is several inches closer to Louis than he was before. Louis mentally kicks himself for noticing this.

Niall has joined in the card game happening on the floor. Louis watches for a little while. He can’t quite follow what’s happening, but whatever it is, Zayn is very pleased.

“This room is incredible,” Harry says. He’s looking around at the paint on the walls. Funny. Louis has stopped noticing that, for the most part. The only time he really thinks about it is when he’s wondering when Zayn will figure out what color suits him.

He thinks about what color would suit Harry. He stops immediately because that is hippie nonsense.

“Who d’you suppose is winning?” Harry asks Louis in an undertone.

“Zayn, obviously.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Look at his face,” Louis replies. Zayn’s grin is so wide it’s maniacal.

“He wouldn’t be very good at poker,” Harry reasons. Zayn puts down a card gleefully and laughs as Liam and Niall howl, voicing their displeasure wordlessly.

“Isn’t that what they’re playing?” Louis takes a swig of beer.

“I thought it was gin rummy?”

“I think you can only play that with two people.”

Harry’s face dimples adorably. “Oh, well, card games aren’t really my forte.”

Jesus Christ, he says things like “forte” in common conversation. Louis fights against rolling his eyes. He stares determinedly down at his beer as Harry runs a hand casually through his curls. Louis doesn’t want to see the way his shirt pulls up when he does this, exposing skin, but he can’t help that he has decent peripheral vision.

 _Initiate me_ , he thinks, then, _fucking hell_.

“Okay,” Niall announces a few moments later. The rain has picked up outside; the gentle plinks on the window have turned into a full-on roar. Niall almost has to shout over it. “This is boring.” He tosses his hand into the middle of the floor, the cards scattering.

“You’re only saying that because you’re losing by approximately one million points,” Zayn says. When Liam laughs, Zayn hides a smile behind his own hand of cards.

Niall lies back, putting his hands behind his head as a pillow. “Louis,” he says with his eyes closed, “Truth or dare?”

Louis responds automatically, “Dare.”

“Go into the hallway and sing the chorus of a song.”

“Ooh, make it a Madonna song,” Harry adds, clapping his hands together like an excited child.

“I’m gonna need another beer for this,” Louis says, but secretly he’s pleased. This kind of thing is his bread and butter, really. He grabs the last beer off of his dresser and drains it within a minute. He’s fully aware of how he looks, silhouetted against the window as the rain comes pouring down outside, posing with the bottle tilted at a suggestive angle.

He steps into the hallway. The four boys crowd in the doorway, watching. The rotten weather means that the hallway is busy. Some of the other boys are racing each other, some sitting and talking. All along the hallway, doors are open. The perfect setting.

For whatever reason, the first Madonna song that pops into his head is _Like A Virgin_.

Without any preamble, Louis launches, not into the chorus, but into the very beginning of the song. At first, some of the other boys in the hallway laugh as Louis shimmies along to the words he’s belting out. But their giddiness fades to respect as they realize Louis can actually sing. When he’s finished the whole song, there is a brief, stunned pause. Louis’s friends stare blankly at him.

Then, Zayn wolf-whistles and everyone bursts into applause. Louis feels like a peacock with his feathers on display. He takes a quick bow and then hurries into the bedroom. He sits back down on his bed. This time, he doesn’t feel the need to curl in on himself.

“That was ace. I didn’t know you could sing like that,” Zayn says. He takes a seat on his own bed.

Niall agrees, “Me neither; I would’ve never dared you do it if I’d known. I’d have picked something more embarrassing.”

Liam and Niall flop down on the floor as Harry shuts the door with a snap. He hesitates for a moment, then resumes his position on Louis’s bed. Louis feels more at ease with this development. His heart has calmed down somewhat now that alcohol and satisfaction are coursing through his body.

“You should join the Chapel Choir or something, I’m not kidding.” This is high praise from Liam. Louis knows full well that he regards Westland’s Chapel Choir to be the best in the nation, possibly the world.

Harry is looking at Louis with his doe eyes full of admiration. “You were absolutely brilliant.”

“Jesus, gents, it was Madonna not bloody Don Giovanni,” Louis says, and though he feels color rushing to his cheeks, he is still pleased with himself.

“It’s your turn,” Niall slaps at Louis’s foot.

“Okay,” Louis looks around at everyone except for Harry. Finally, he decides on, “Liam, truth or dare?”

He’s riding on a high until the first crash of thunder rattles the walls.

Louis jumps, his hands clenching in his duvet. He shakes it off quickly and glances around the room, but none of the boys seem to have noticed. None, of course, except a concerned Harry, who catches Louis’s eye.

Everyone else is watching Liam make up his mind. Finally, he says, “Truth.”

“Erm,” Louis says. _Focus_. He considers his options. Liam, for all his blustering and barking orders, is quite sensitive. Louis decides not to torture him with the third-degree. “What was your first kiss like?”

Liam sighs. “Nothing special. It was in Year Seven, I think? There was this girl over at Trinity - Tess - who liked me, and so all my friends told me I should kiss her, because I guess that’s what we all thought you were supposed to do when someone fancied you? So, you know, I did, at the class picnic.” Liam misreads the forced calm on Louis’s face as confusion. “Trinity is the girls’ school about two villages over. We’re always organizing co-ed events with them.” Louis forces himself to nod, to behave normally. “Anyhow, there were about nine other lads standing around watching, and some of her friends as well. It was quite awkward.”

“You didn’t even take her to a movie or summat? Just outright kissed her?” Niall snickers.

Liam grins. “Yeah, well. I’ve never been Mr. Romantic.”

Zayn is examining the label of his beer bottle with great interest and frowning.

“Your turn, then, Liam,” Louis says. Another clap of thunder echoes across the grounds, booming against the stone walls of the old dormitory. Louis closes his eyes briefly, every muscle in his body tensing at the sound.

Every time Louis thinks about someone finding out that he, an eighteen-year-old student who fearlessly pranks faculty members and who can stand in front of a bunch of peers and sing Madonna without a second thought, is afraid of thunderstorms, his blood goes cold. He knows that it’s a silly phobia, but he can’t seem to shake it. Louis has tried everything to rid himself of the fear, once even going as far as locking himself in his mum’s car during a particularly raucous storm. He thought he could exposure-therapy himself to normalcy, but he ran back inside after five minutes, shaking like a leaf.

Every time it thunderstorms, he thinks of when he was seven years old. He and Lottie, his little sister, were out in the back garden playing hide-and-seek. She was only five at the time. It was her turn to hide when a summer storm had rolled in, the blue sky suddenly turning a very dark grey. Rain was slicing down across the grass in sheets, and Louis couldn’t find her anywhere. He had run blindly around the yard shouting her name for what felt like an eternity, wind whipping the rain across his face in unrelenting slaps. Lightning forked across the sky, briefly illuminating the world around him in surreal iridescence.

He had started crying by the time he went inside to fetch his mum. His tears mingled with the rain on his cheeks. His seven-year-old mind was racing with all sorts of horrifying possibilities. His mother’s face went white when he sobbed that he couldn’t find Lottie and she’d ordered him to stay inside while she sprinted out into the storm. He’d never seen her look so scared.

Every clap of thunder sent white-hot panic racing through Louis’s bones as he waited. Every bolt of lightning made him jump. By the time they found Lottie, the rain had let up and Louis had gone back outside to help. He spotted her almost instantly, sobbing and soaking wet, nestled on the branch of a tree at the very edge of their expansive yard, clinging to the trunk for dear life.

It had taken them until Louis’s stepfather had gotten home later that evening to calm her enough to get her down. She was like a frightened kitten. And when Louis thinks about what might’ve happened to her if the lightning had happened to strike in their yard that day, he has to fight the urge to vomit.

It was the first time he can remember feeling vulnerable and truly terrified. It was such a strange sensation, seeing his mother so frightened while feeling so scared himself. In a way it was painful, that a fun game had gone so awry.

Liam blows air across the top of his mostly-empty beer bottle, creating a hollow sound that shakes Louis out of his reverie. “Niall,” Liam says, “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Niall replies, eyes glinting.

“Give Louis a piggyback ride to your room and back.”

“Why me?” Louis protests as Niall stands up to accept this challenge.

“You’re the smallest,” Liam says. “And I don’t think Nialler here could carry anyone else.”

Louis hopes Niall can’t feel the way his heart is pounding as they hurtle their way to the fourth floor and back. The storm outside is getting worse; the lights in the building are flickering. Niall doesn’t seem to notice Louis’s jangling nerves. He just whoops with delight as they fly past other students and into the room. Their arrival is met with cheers.

Harry watches Louis tuck himself into the corner. For the rest of the evening, Louis keeps catching Harry watching him. When everyone is huddled around the window to watch Zayn complete his dare of running outside in the storm, Louis’s hands start to shake. He tells himself to stop being so absurd, but it doesn’t work. The lights flicker once, twice, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

Louis starts when Harry reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. It’s under the guise of leaning closer to the window and not losing his balance, but it feels like more than that. It feels like Harry trying to comfort him.

A familiar sensation is taking root in Louis. He thought Rodgers might be his next pranking victim, but now he’s thinking it might be Harry...Harry and his perceptiveness must be distracted.

Zayn finally makes it to the bench under the silver birch that sits next to the path to the dormitory. He gives them a rude hand gesture, then sprints back inside.

“I hate you all,” he glowers when he returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrical references from this chapter:**  
>  _[The Boy With the Thorn in His Side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qdOHPjMzY8s)_ by The Smiths


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light warnings for this chapter: a bit more language, and a bit more angst. (Nothing crazy.)  
> Hope you enjoy!

_**September, 1985** _

Liam folds his arms across his chest as he surveys his team, a clipboard clutched in one hand. They’re gathered in a circle on the edge of the pitch, their brand new kits bright and clean. Louis is finally, thankfully, wearing shorts that fit him.

“This is it,” Liam says, gazing around at all of them with steely, determined eyes. “This is going to show Westland exactly what they can expect from their team this season. And I know we’re up to the challenge. We’ve got the skills on our side, and it’s on our own turf as well.”

Louis swallows thickly. He looks over at Zayn who is staring at Liam with his mouth slightly agape. Louis nudges Zayn’s leg with his knee. His mouth snaps closed and he gives Louis a slight grimace.

“If play well, we set the bar for the rest of the season,” Liam continues. “Let’s start from a place we can be proud of.”

Harry is hanging onto Liam’s every word, his green eyes wide.

“St. Genevieve’s is good, but I honestly know that we’re better,” Liam says. He runs a hand through his hair. Now it’s sticking up at odd angles in the back. “They may have creamed us last year, but we’re a whole new team now. We’ve got some new blood that will really kick us up a notch. If the practices are anything to go by, that is.” Liam’s gaze flickers up to Louis, and then over to Harry, and then back down to his clipboard.

Louis often forgets that Harry is new to the team as well. His sunny, confident attitude and powerfully accurate passes mirror that of a seasoned vet, not a noob. Though, he supposes, Harry must’ve played on the junior team last year.

He was probably the fucking star player on that team, as well.

Liam taps his clipboard twice with his pencil before looking back up at the team. “Go on and get stretched out. First strings, be ready to take the pitch at the whistle. We’ve got this.”

He thrusts one hand into the middle of the ring and all the other boys follow suit, piling their hands on top of Liam’s. Rodgers is snapping his gum loudly. Louis hopes he chokes on it.

Louis is one of the last to put his hand in the circle, followed only by Harry, whose eyes meet his as his palm comes to rest on top of Louis’s knuckles. It’s all he can do to keep his face impassive, electricity swooping from his throat straight down to his toes. His palms are itching.

“‘Every day above ground is a good day,’” Liam shouts gruffly.

“‘The world is yours!’” Everyone else shouts back. Everyone else, except Louis.

He turns to Zayn and whispers, “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t really understand it myself,” Zayn replies quietly as Louis starts stretching. “Liam went through this phase where he was obsessed with Scarface, and I guess the quotes kind of stuck.”

“How long have you two known each other?”

Zayn shrugs and fusses with his hair. “Ever since I came to Westland, I guess, in Year 9.”

“Hmmm.” Louis narrows his eyes. “Why aren’t you stretching?” All of the other players are warming up, passing the ball in groups of three. Louis is deliberately not watching Harry, who just kicked the ball to Niall, a wide smile across his face.

Zayn is just standing around and preening. “Piss off,” he replies good-naturedly. “You know I’m not going to play.”

Fair enough.

The match begins a few minutes later. Liam steps up for the coin toss opposite St. Genevieve’s incredibly tall and lanky captain. Louis and the other starters take their place on the field, and Louis feels good, really good. Excitement is burning in the pit of his stomach.

He blames his excitement on what happens next. That, and the fact that he’s really never been much of a team player.

He gets a nice pass from one of the defenders toward the middle of the first half, and he takes the ball up the side of the pitch. He sees Niall open, but his lungs feel all right after his preparatory runs, and there’s this weightless feeling in the spaces between his bones, and he surges forward. He fakes left, dodges right around the opposing team’s defender, swings a leg back and -

Right into the arms of the St. Genevieve goalkeeper.

Damn.

He manages to get a few more shots on goal, getting increasingly frustrated as his attempts go unrewarded. The St. Genevieve defense isn’t all that stellar, to be honest. They are a bit slow. But the goalkeeper is top-notch and half Spanish, so, there’s that. Westland doesn’t stand much of a chance.

Louis wipes sweat off of his forehead and jogs over to the side of the field at half-time. The score is still 0-0.

“All right, boys,” Liam says once they are all in a huddle. Everyone is covered in sweat and rain from the light drizzle. “Not too shabby, but we’re going to have to step up on offense.”

“That goalkeeper is one fecking pox, innit?” Niall continues to mumble, but his accent seems to have gotten thicker, and Louis only catches a few words here and there - something about a bog, maybe? And he thinks he hears “berk” a couple of times, even.

The team just looks at him sort of blankly until the whistle blows again.

“I want to see some more passing, Tomlinson!” Liam shouts as they take the field again.

 _Okay, okay, fine_. He sweeps his fringe out of his face. Harry dashes past him, giving him an encouraging thumbs up as he goes. He can go feck himself.

But Louis heeds Liam’s instructions, and in the second half he has two assists - one to Niall that ends in a fairly thrilling score (one that the goalkeeper misses by centimetres) and one to Harry. It’s a corner kick. As it turns out, Harry is a pretty good, er, header.

The match ends 2-0. Liam is beaming. Niall is swearing. Harry gives Louis a shy smile, one that Louis tries to ignore. Zayn is entirely uninvolved. Louis isn’t sure Zayn could even give the end score with a gun to his head as he probably spent the whole 90 minutes on the bench staring at someone on the wrong end of the field.

Despite the adrenaline of the match coursing through him, Louis’s palms have not stopped itching since he caught Harry’s eye during Liam’s pep talk. He purposefully hangs back on the pitch while the rest of the team ambles into the locker room for their showers, under the guise of helping Liam put all the footballs into a big mesh bag.

When Liam wanders off to chat with the referee, Louis slips into the locker room and, just as he’d hoped, the boys are all in the showers. The air is thick and humid, the scents of sweat and soap mingling into a confusing blend of musky cleanness. The team’s chatter and laughter carries through the room, bouncing off the cement walls. He hears Niall sound off the beginning of Dundalk FC’s chant before he is abruptly and emphatically shushed by several people.

Louis crosses to the set of lockers along the far wall and opens the one he’s pretty sure is Harry’s. A water bottle and a maroon and yellow kit bag with the Westland crest on it are neatly arranged on the shelf. He picks the water bottle up and looks at the bottom. An “H” is scrawled near the edge - Louis replaces it carefully in the same position. He zips the bag open as slowly and quietly as he can.

The bag holds several items - a pack of gum, a Fleetwood Mac cassette tape with the name “GEMMA” scrawled across the plastic jacket, a button with Freddie Mercury’s face on it, a half-used stick of antiperspirant, a can of Old Spice Champion body spray, and a bundle of wadded-up clothes that smell like detergent.

Louis grins to himself, carefully extracting the body spray and moving as quietly as he can to his own locker against the opposite wall. He opens it, sets the body spray on his shelf, and rummages in his own bag. He can feel his heartbeat speeding up again even though he’s been off the pitch for at least ten minutes by now. The itch in his palms is spreading up his arms. He emerges from his bag with a can of silly string.

Despite his racing heart, Louis’s fingers are steady and sure as he carefully peels the label from the body spray and wraps it around the container of silly string. He swaps their caps, shoulders his locker closed, and admires his handiwork. In his hand is what appears to be an ordinary container of Old Spice Champion.

He hurriedly places the can in Harry’s bag, tucking it under the pile of clean clothes, and shuts the locker. He has just positioned himself strategically in front of his own locker and stripped off his football jersey when a few of the boys begin to filter out of the showers.

Louis knows he needs to shower quickly. The anticipation curled in his gut means he only feels a little bit of grief at not being able to enjoy the warm, steamy water against his sticky skin and tired muscles for very long. He hops out of the shower after only a minute or two, towel around his waist, without even shampooing. When he re-enters the locker room, the rest of the boys are in various states of dress. Harry’s got his pants and a t-shirt on, with his back (his long, lean, _muscular_ back) to the room. It won’t be long now. Louis’s hands shake as he unzips his bag and searches for a fresh pair of pants.

A minute later, while Louis is in the middle of pulling a shirt over his head, a surprised yelp splits through the soft chatter. When he finally finds his way through the shirt and pops his head out, he sees Harry covered in silly string. It loops up around his arms, over his shoulders, and some of it hangs down and clings to his shorts. He is looking down at himself, curls hanging over his eyes, and several of the boys start to chuckle.

And _yes_ \- there it is. The tightly-coiled anticipation in Louis’s stomach has unwound into something warm and satiated. His veins are running liquid gold. His hands have stopped shaking and he feels himself relax again. He has rebuilt his comfortable walls. He can breathe.

Until.

Harry looks up, red-faced and absolutely crestfallen. He is blinking furiously as though trying not to cry. Now it’s Harry’s hands that have caught a case of the shakes. For a moment, amidst the laughter that echoes through the locker room, Harry cracks a quick, ostensibly easy grin and shrugs. But as soon as the laughter dies down and the other boys turn away, back to whatever they were doing, his face falls again. He locks eyes with Louis, just for a moment. The slant of Harry’s mouth conveys more devastation than if he’d outright told Louis he was a wanker.

Louis has made a terrible mistake.

His high vanishes, leaving him empty and unsteady. It’s never been like this - the high from an especially good prank can last up to a couple of days. Even the ones with consequences. Even the ones that get him expelled. They always leave a spark somewhere within him that burns brightly where nobody can see.

Now, though, as he watches Harry wipe as much of the string off of his clothes as he can, gather his things, and practically run out of the locker room, the spark in Louis has been abruptly snuffed. He’s filled instead with a dark, smoky uncertainty, and his mouth has gone dry.

Louis has no idea how Harry knew it was him. _But then again_ , he thinks, _Harry is Westland’s number-one genius_. Thinking the spiteful words isn’t quite satisfying anymore - thinking them makes Louis feel like a dickweed. Which, he probably is.

Fuck.

He should go find Harry. He should apologize. He should -

Someone’s hand is on his shoulder. Louis’s brain wildly, illogically hopes to find green eyes staring back at him when he turns around, but it’s Zayn.

“Ready?” he asks, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips.

Louis nods, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He follows Zayn out of the locker room and hopes that the depressing raincloud of empathy and morals hovering over him stays behind. Unfortunately, though, it doesn’t. It follows Louis all the way back to his dorm, where he immediately shucks off his shoes and socks, crawls under his duvet, squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to stop thinking.

\--

Louis doesn’t remember drifting off to sleep - he just remembers pulling his duvet over his head and refusing to come out even when the air around him got thick and hot and hard to breathe.

Cool air hits his face and he blinks his eyes open slowly.

“What are you doing?” Liam looms over him, positively baffled to find Louis asleep in bed.

“Erm. Napping?” Louis says. His voice is raspy. He wonders how long he’s been cocooned in bed. His stomach feels as though it’s full of rocks, and with the haze of sleep swimming in his mind, it takes him a minute to remember why. When he does, he has a hard time swallowing the nervous, extra saliva that fills his mouth.

Right. Harry.

“Well, get up!” Liam says. “We’re going for celebratory pints at the Stamford Arms in ten minutes.”

Louis groans and stretches. He rolls over and glances at the clock next to his bed. 7:00 - he’s been asleep for three hours. Liam is fussing with the collar of his slightly-too-large jacket in front of the mirror. It’s rather strange seeing Liam in the wild. He looks like a different person out of his Westland uniform or football kit. His everyday clothes are clean and simple and he’s definitely ironed them recently. Bloke probably irons his bloody socks.

Louis swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, looking down at his own wrinkled clothes. He sighs.

Zayn walks through the door and smirks at Louis. “Nice hair,” he says.

Louis smooths a hand over his hair absently. Zayn looks effortlessly fantastic, as always, with a bit of fringe hanging just so over his forehead. As someone who shares a room with him, though, Louis knows that he’s spent at least twenty minutes in the bathroom achieving his carefully-crafted blasé effect.

When the three of them set off across campus for the pub, Louis having thrown on his best pair of jeans and a plain white button-down (in order to appeal casual yet composed), his heart is hammering so hard in his chest that it drowns out part of Liam and Zayn’s conversation.

Harry might not even be there, he tells himself. He might be avoiding you.

He can’t decide which would be worse - for Harry to be there, or for Harry not to be there because Louis upset him.

If Harry is there, what is Louis supposed to say to him? "Sorry I humiliated you and irreparably damaged our barely-existent friendship?" "Sorry you're so bloody charming that I had to forcibly push you away just to feel okay again?" “Sorry I’m a fucking idiot?”

Louis stays quiet during the ten minute walk across the grounds to the village. He thinks that Liam and Zayn probably notice the gloom that is radiating out of him, but they’re nice enough not to say anything.

When they get to the Stamford Arms, the pleasant buzz of conversation and lights from inside spill out through the tall windows, pushed open to admit the warm autumn air.

Liam pulls the thick wooden door open and Louis follows the other two inside.

Niall is two pints deep already and greets them enthusiastically. Some of his Guinness sloshes out of his glass and onto the bar as he throws his arms wide. Louis takes him in, in all his red-track-suited glory. “‘Bout time you lads got here.”

Zayn nods to the beer and his outfit. “You’re a walking cliche, Nialler.”

Niall winks. “What’re you drinking?”

They all respond with something different, but Niall orders a round of Guinness for everyone anyway. He leads them over to a booth nestled in the back corner of the cozy, dimly-lit pub. They pass a few of their celebrating teammates, who clap Liam on the back as he goes.

Louis can’t help but scan pub-goers, seeking out a flash of dimples or curly hair.

He’s both relieved and agitated when he doesn’t find Harry. He is the first to slide into the booth, and he is subsequently sandwiched in by Niall. Zayn sits down across from Louis, with Liam squeezing in next to him.

Zayn’s jaw tenses, throwing his cheekbones into sharper relief. A moment later, he extracts a Benson & Hedges out of his pocket and disappears into a cloud of smoke.

Louis takes a few sips of beer and hopes that it’ll settle his stomach. He starts relaxing by round two, when it becomes apparent that Harry isn’t coming. He’s in the middle of animatedly detailing his first assist in the game, when Niall shouts, “Oi, Styles!” Louis follows Niall’s line of vision to the bar, where Harry is ordering a drink.

Louis suddenly becomes aware of every detail - Harry looking like a young Rock Hudson. Thick hair. Broad shoulders stretching the top of a plaid shirt. Rich Girl floating out of the jukebox on the left side of the pub. The yellowy glow of the globe light above them. Rodgers making a pass at a pretty brunette a booth over.

Louis doesn’t smoke but he’s thinking of asking Zayn for a cigarette. Harry has grabbed his pint and he’s walking over, and Louis is trapped, fucking trapped. He sucks down the remainder of his Guinness.

He can’t very well say something, not right now, not in front of everyone. That’ll only make everything worse.

Harry sits down next to Niall. “Heya, Haz,” Liam says, clinking his pint against Harry’s glass. “Good score, today, really. I meant to tell you earlier, but you disappeared.”

Louis squirms uncomfortably. _It’s a bitch, girl_. And, yeah, he went too far today. He had no idea that Harry would react the way that he did. He had no idea that, instead of relieving the pain by pushing him away, Louis would feel worse. He wants to sink under the table.

“Cheers, El Capitan,” Harry replies. He’s probably smirking charmingly, as well. Good grief.

Thank God Niall is dividing Louis from Harry, because Louis has started to sweat nervously. He’s pulling at his shirt, fussing with his empty pint glass. Zayn quirks an eyebrow at him. Which, he thinks, really? Who’s the one chain smoking right now?

“Oi, you never told me I had a good goal,” Niall pouts.

Liam is properly apologetic. “So sorry, Nialler, you did very well, too.”

“Who wants more to drink?” Niall says, placated.

“I do,” Louis says, his mind moving a kilometer a minute. Maybe Harry will follow him to the bar? Maybe they can talk in private? Maybe Louis will wee in his fucking trousers from nerves? “But you’ll have to let me out. I want to actually order what I want this time.”

Harry and Niall get up to let him out. Louis tries to make eye contact with Harry as he passes, tries to communicate wordlessly that he wants to talk to him, wants to apologize. But Harry avoids his gaze, talking the whole time to Niall, instead.

With shaking hands, Louis does a quick shot of whiskey at the bar. Then he orders another round of Guinness because he can’t think of what else he might want. He can’t think at all. Deep breath. Then, once more unto the breach.

As he passes Rodgers and his group of friends, he catches a bit of their conversation. The girl he was chatting up suggests calling a cab and going into Kendal. There’s a new nightclub there that she wants to go to. Rodgers shoots down the idea. “Nah, I saw two blokes snogging on the dancefloor the last time I was there.” Rodgers shudders theatrically. “Not exactly a place for civilized people.”

Louis feels like all of his nerves are exposed.

He sits down next to Liam this time, so that Niall and Harry don’t have to move. He can’t apologize right now, but he can’t shake the urge to say something to Harry. Harry who is across from him, throwing Louis into confusing turmoil. The first thing that comes to Louis’s mind falls out of his mouth, “Aren’t you underage?” He says it way more accusingly than he meant to. He wants to die when he sees Harry’s blush. He’s staring into the depths of his beer. He won’t look at Louis.

“Ah, that’s why we always celebrate here,” Niall says cheerfully. “The bartender doesn’t mind at all, so long as you stay on your stool.”

Niall claps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, but the younger boy still doesn’t look up.

The next hour or so is excruciating. Louis is directly across from Harry, and he keeps trying to catch his eyes, but nothing he does works. He tells a loud story about a prank he pulled at Plymouth, the first college he got kicked out of. He’d only been there a week. The story involves a lot of hand gestures, and Louis accidentally smacks Liam in the mouth.

“Whoops, sorry, Payno,” Louis says, checking first to make sure Liam is okay before flicking his gaze to Harry to see if finally he’s looking up.

He isn’t.

Niall follows Louis’s act with a tale of his own. He has the whole table in stitches, beer nearly coming out of Zayn’s nose. And while Niall is captivating, Louis watches Harry the whole time. Harry resolutely watches Niall’s face.

Louis can’t take any more. He clears his throat to try to get Harry’s attention, but it’s so dry that no sound comes out. He swallows and tries again.

Harry finally, mercifully looks up at Louis through his fringe, without lifting his head all the way. Louis can't read his expression.

"Can we talk?" Louis jerks his head to the side, indicating that they should move somewhere else. Harry nods slowly. Louis grabs his pint, holding it much tighter than necessary with shaking hands, and slides out of the booth. He stares straight ahead as he passes through the dining room and walks out the back door, finding himself in a secluded alleyway between two buildings.

He turns around to find Harry behind him, and lets out a long breath.

"Hi," Louis says. _Yes, okay, well done. Start with words_.

"Hi," says Harry, his head ducked. He's mumbling at his shoes.

"I'm - I'm sorry," says Louis, and it tumbles out of his mouth in a rush. "I'm really sorry. About - you know. Earlier. With the string."

He pauses to take several long gulps of his beer. He’s buzzed, but not buzzed enough. He sighs as he feels the burn of the carbonation slide down his throat and fill his stomach.

Harry looks up and faces Louis straight on for the first time since the locker room. Even though his face is flushed and his lower lip is trembling, his voice comes out strong.

"If you didn't want to be my friend," says Harry, "you could've just said so."

Louis is filled with a desire to steal Zayn’s matches and light himself on fire. “No,” the word comes out in a breath. The shake in his hands is now so bad that his beer starts sloshing in his glass. Louis catches Harry watching his hands before he looks up to Louis’s face.

Harry is waiting for him to continue, green eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Louis should keep going. He needs to say something. He needs to say it now. Harry is probably wondering why Louis dragged him out here just to stare at him and tremble.

“No,” he says again, more clearly this time. “It’s not that. Pranking, I...I mean...it’s...I’m just - I’m a dickhead.” Louis is breathless. His heart has landed somewhere near his liver.

To his surprise, Harry shakes his head, a few curls gently thwapping the sides of his face. “No, you’re not,” he says carefully. “You want me to think you are, for some reason. But you’re not.”

Louis swallows. “I honestly didn’t know it would hurt your feelings,” he says. His voice comes out as a near whisper. He’s clutching his now empty pint glass so hard it might shatter.

Harry just stares at him.

“I - you - you get under my skin,” Louis admits. Though maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe this isn’t a conversation for _civilized people_. He’s toeing a precarious edge. But he continues. “And I was scared. So. I dealt with it. But - it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Harry steps closer to him. Louis still can’t read his expression.

“I get under your skin?” he says, moving another step closer to Louis in the dark alleyway.

Louis holds his gaze. “Not like, in a weird way,” he says hurriedly. “Just like - you’re this genius who’s good at everything and to top it off you’re basically the nicest bloke I’ve ever met. I should hate you.”

Harry looks down again.

“But I don’t. That’s the problem.”

Harry looks up, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips. He extends a hand. For a moment, Louis regards it warily.

“Truce?” Harry says.

Louis doesn’t deserve it, but he shakes Harry’s hand anyway.

“Mates,” Louis corrects.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrical references in this chapter:**  
>  _[Rich Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mdIWaRi-7c)_ by Hall  & Oates


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of smut-ish stuff in this chapter. It's not even good, cause we've never written any before. But this is your fair warning.

_**October, 1985** _

“There is no way I’m going to pass this class,” Niall groans. He’s lying on his back on the floor of the common room, an open bag of crisps on his stomach, a book folded over his face.

“Not if that’s how you revise,” Louis replies. “What are you trying to do? Absorb the information?”

“No,” Niall’s voice is slightly muffled by the textbook. “I’m reading. My arms just got tired holding the book up.”

Louis shakes his head, fondness pulling at his heart. He and Niall don’t share any classes as Niall is a year below Louis, but they both have time free on Wednesday afternoons. Now that the school year is well under way, they figured they may as well use this time to study. Mostly they just sit and snack and bullshit while surrounded by textbooks, notes, and half-written essays...but no one (especially Liam) needs to know the details of what goes on.

“Okay, fine, let’s watch telly.”

Another good thing about Wednesday afternoons is that everyone else living in their hall seems to be busy. So Niall and Louis are free to watch whatever they want on the communal television and to make as many prank calls as they want on the communal telephones.

Niall sits up, closes his book, and joins Louis on the overstuffed sofa that sits square in front of the television. “What’d you want to watch?” Louis asks as he flips past a football game and _Coronation Street_.

“I wish _Doctor Who_ was on in the daytime,” Niall muses. He stifles a yawn.

Louis stops on BBC 1 and they watch an advert for the Six O’Clock News. AIDS is written across the screen, surrounded by smoke. The grim reaper looms in the background.

“That’s mildly terrifying,” Louis says lightly.

“Go back to _Coronation Street_ ,” Niall crunches loudly on his crisps. Louis rolls his eyes and sighs like he’d rather be watching documentaries about how gay men are killing most of society, but he changes the channel.

They watch for a few moments in silence until, “What is it with Jack and all of his stupid schemes?” Niall asks. “Will he never learn?”

Louis shakes his head. “I can’t believe you watch this, Nialler.”

“Lads,” a voice says from behind them. Louis turns to see that Zayn has entered the common room and flung himself into a vinyl bean bag chair. The beanbags, according to Liam, were introduced by the Auden Hall house master, Mr. Holbrook, to make the common room more “groovy”. Apparently, ancient Mr. Holbrook, who’s also Westland’s resident literature professor, is a bit stuck in the 1960’s.

The chair Zayn has deposited himself into makes unsettling squeaking noises as Zayn shifts around. He glances television screen once, and then he folds his arms behind his head and closes his eyes. Louis sighs. He will likely need a crowbar to extract Zayn from the bean bag chair at this point. He’s always exhausted by mid-week.

For a while the only sounds in the room are the quiet conversation from the television, Niall’s crunching and rustling of his crisp packet, and the faint echoes of doors opening and closing down the hall. Louis tries to focus on reviewing his Maths notes from yesterday, but they look like complete gibberish out of context.

They looked like complete gibberish in context as well, if he’s honest.

“Oh! Here you are.”

Louis turns and this time it’s Harry in the doorway, rucksack hitched over one shoulder, hair slightly mussed from being outside.

“Everyone’s doors were closed,” Harry explains, dumping his things on the ground and settling himself on the floor near the telly.

“Just get done with class?” Niall asks him through a mouthful of crisps.  He extends the bag to Harry, who takes a few.

“Yeah,” says Harry, “but I’ve got to head out again soon. I volunteered to help with the First Years’ Social.”

Louis stares at Harry. “Shit,” he says. “I forgot all about that.”

Harry turns to Louis. “You volunteered too?”

“Yeah,” Louis groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Ages ago. My history professor is in charge of it, and he sent a sheet around the first week I was in class. And I put my name on it. I think I was trying to be impressive?”

He lifts his head back up, and Harry’s face breaks into a slow smile.

“Well...maybe if, I mean...we could go together, yeah? It might be less painful that way.”

Louis nods. “Cheers,” he says glumly.

Niall claps him on the shoulder. “It won’t be that bad, mate. Besides, volunteer hours are a graduation requirement. Might as well get ‘em out of the way.”

Zayn sniffles loudly from the corner, dead asleep, his head lolling to the side.

\--

The late afternoon is brisk. Louis is pleased to not be sweating through his blazer. A breeze picks up as he and Harry trudge towards the eastern side of campus, where someone planted a bunch of trees in a large circle and called it a “grove.” A lot of the younger boys use The Grove as a hang-out spot, and the space is occasionally used by the administration for various events and fundraisers.

Liam explained all of this to Louis earlier, when Louis told him why he and Harry would have to miss practice that evening.

The silence between Louis and Harry as they walk isn’t like the silence Louis is used to when he walks with Zayn. With Zayn, he doesn’t always talk because Zayn doesn’t always like to talk. He just likes to be.

With Harry, he doesn’t talk because he has absolutely no idea what to say.

“I love autumn, it’s so - erm - lovely,” Harry says. This inane statement suggests to Louis that they are, at least, on the same page about the general awkwardness in the air, as well as the time of year.

“Innit.”

Another few moments pass.

“You know,” says Louis, throwing caution to the wind, “When I was in First Year, I had a bit of a reputation.”

Harry looks at him, dimples on display. “Oh?”

Louis nods. “I hated these organized events. I think most kids do, really - at that age you just want to run around with your mates, not sit and listen to stuffy old cods talk about academia.” Shutting up when he is nervous is not a skill that he possesses.

Harry stays silent, but it’s a different kind of silence than before. Before, Louis felt like the air around him was pressing in, forcing him to say something. Now the air feels light. Patient. Like Harry is genuinely interested in what Louis is saying, in the mundane happenings of his past.  Which is unusual, but Louis is going to go with it.

“So,” Louis continues, “I’ve always been the troublemaker. But back then, it was on a much smaller scale. And I was much better at not being caught.”

A huge group of boys approaches from the opposite direction. Harry wraps his fingers gently around Louis’s wrist and tugs him to the side of the cobbled footpath to allow the group to pass. His wrist immediately goes up in flames, and his eyes lock onto his shoes until Harry releases him.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters quietly.

Louis shakes his head, but doesn’t meet Harry’s gaze. “No reason to be.”

The oppressive silence is back.

“So what kind of things did you do?” Harry presses.

“Oh, right. Well. At my school, the big event for First Years was the tea. They really went all out for it. It was one of those super posh places - like, they had specific china sets for each event.” His ears burn when he thinks about it.

“Yuck,” Harry supplies.

“You’re telling me. Anyhow, I decided to spice things up by hiding some of the benches in random classrooms. I had mates helping me, of course. But, yeah, when everyone arrived in the afternoon for the tea, about half the people didn’t have anywhere to sit. And the teachers had to all run around, frantically pulling chairs from various places.”

Harry’s dimples are rudely distracting. “That’s amazing. And clever, especially since you were only eleven.”

Louis shrugs and looks back at his shoes. He’s thinking “clever” is a bit of stretch. “I’ve always had a knack for creating chaos. Not good for much else, mind.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry’s head snap up. He can feel his eyes boring into the side of his face. He reluctantly meets Harry’s determined gaze.

"That’s a complete lie,” Harry says, his tone quiet but stern. “You’re excellent on the football pitch. And - I mean - I don’t know you that well, yet, obviously…” Harry blushes, but he doesn’t move his gaze from Louis.  He only stumbles a little in his attempt to maintain eye contact.  Clumsy. “But I can tell you’re a really great, kind person. I can tell by the way you treat people.”

Louis blinks at him. “Last week I made you so upset you wouldn’t speak to me.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, but you didn’t mean to. And you apologized, which says a lot.”

Louis falls silent, mind whirling, hoping, perhaps unrealistically, that something reasonable to say will occur to him. He’s not sure if anyone has ever described him as “kind” before. “Witty,” perhaps. “Fun to be around.” But “a good person” is probably pushing the limits of what the word “good” means...especially coming from a boy who has been nothing but delightful to him and who has received little but hurt in return.

The only thing he comes up with is, “You’re weird.”

Harry smiles and shakes his head.

They turn a corner around a large, stone building and arrive at The Grove. It’s exactly like Liam described - a circular copse of thick, leafy oak trees. With the setting sun inching closer to the horizon, the trees look like they’re on fire - vibrant red leaves fading into burnt oranges and cheerful yellows. The leaves ripple in the breeze that smells like apples and makes Louis think of long drives in Doncaster.

A few other boys are milling around the clearing in the middle of the trees, unloading metal folding chairs and tables from the bed of a truck parked on the lawn. Louis spots Professor Ardmore next to the truck, and he tugs carefully on Harry’s sleeve to get his attention. He’s still oddly aware of the skin on his wrist from where Harry touched him before.

Harry nods and they make their way over to a Ardmore, who greets them with a small smile. He scans the clipboard in his hand. “Tomlinson,” he nods. “And…?”

“Harry Styles,” Harry says, running a hand through his curls, throwing them into further disarray. Louis looks away as soon as he realizes he’s watching.

“Right,” Ardmore says. “I’ve got you both on lights with Peters, over there.” He points to the edge of the clearing, where a younger boy is teetering on a ladder and carelessly tossing handfuls of fairy lights at tree branches. “Uh - looks like you’re just in time.”

They make their way over to Peters, who glances down at them with disinterest.

“Er, hello,” says Harry. “We’re, um - supposed to help you with the lights?”

Peters shrugs. He yanks one of the branches lower and wraps a bundle of fairy lights haphazardly around it. When he releases the branch, it snaps back up to its original position. All of the other branches quiver. The lights sway precariously.

Louis glances around until he spots a second ladder a few trees away. He drags it over and props it against the tree adjacent to Peters’s. Then he grabs the end of the strand of lights, which is lying curled in the grass between their trees. He carries the fairy lights up the ladder with him, trying hard not to crush any of the bulbs as he goes. It’s a ten foot climb, and when he’s halfway up he feels the ladder wobble.

Instinctively, he grabs the wooden sides of the ladder, his knuckles white and his heart hammering. He would look like such a prat if he fell off this blasted thing. While he’s busy thinking about how he’s probably going to break his neck, his sweaty palms slip and the lights fall gently back to the grass.

“Here,” Harry says. He reaches up to hand Louis the lights again, and then he shifts around to stand at the base of the ladder behind Louis. Louis can feel him holding the ladder still, like the ground beneath him has suddenly become solid and steady. He chances a glance behind him.

Harry has his strong hands wrapped around the sides of the ladder. He’s looking up at Louis, “You okay?”

Louis nods and continues his ascent. As soon as he can reach, he weaves the lights quickly and carefully through a few of the tree’s outer branches. He has to try some fairly fancy maneuvering to make sure that everything is even, before he realizes that he’s hanging lights for a stupid school function, not entering a decorating contest. So he climbs back down.

Harry slowly steps out of the way when Louis gets to the bottom few rungs, as though he can sense how wary Louis is about being touched.

When his feet are firmly back on the ground, he meets Harry’s eyes again. “Thanks,” he says.

They take turns climbing up the ladder and holding it steady at the bottom as they make their way around The Grove. The sky slowly turns purple and orange as they go. As the sun dips below the horizon, the twinkling lights on the trees glitter in Harry’s green eyes. A warm feeling unfurls in Louis’s chest.

Which is wrong, isn't it? Louis should not be noticing how Harry’s eyes sparkle. He shouldn’t have spent the last week daydreaming about Harry’s hair. His skin shouldn’t burn just because it comes into contact with Harry’s. At the same time that warmth is radiating out of his heart, his stomach is churning.

Maybe he’s ill. Maybe he’s losing his mind. Maybe he’ll end up naked in the middle of campus, babbling to the voices in his head. Maybe Harry’s arse looks absolutely incredible from this angle.

Louis pushes that last thought out of his mind and focuses on holding the ladder steady.

Harry and Louis have successfully worked their way around the circle before Peters has finished indiscriminately pulling on the branches of his original tree.

“He’s not very efficient, is he?” Louis says, hands on hips, staring at Peters while Harry checks the extension cord that runs from the administration building to The Grove.

“I think we just make a good pair,” Harry replies. He stands up. “Should we see if they need help with anything else?”

“Sure.”

The Grove looks truly magical now that the sun has set properly. Fairy lights glimmering in the crisp air. Peters’s tree is particularly blinding - it’s a large, jumbled ball of lights. There’s nothing but rolling hills off to the east of The Grove. The Gothic campus is to the west, the spires of the buildings silhouetted against the night sky. Stars are glittering above them, mirrored in the decorations below.

It looks so beautiful that Louis doesn’t even want to mess with any of the chair legs so that people would fall when they sat down.

A few students are now securing tablecloths to the folding tables, others placing little flower centerpieces on top of those.

“Where did Professor Ardmore go?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs. One of the boys from Louis’s history class (Simmons, perhaps?) overhears and answers, “Oh, he’s in the building, checking on the food.”

Louis turns around so abruptly that he smacks right into Harry’s broad chest. He hits him hard and sort of bounces off and nearly loses his balance. And, subsequently, he kind of wants to kill himself. Or run away, at least. Harry grabs Louis’s shoulders to steady him. He drops his hands quickly, though.

“Holy Christ, you’re solid,” Louis says, desperate to shift the awkwardness he’s created. He’s grateful that it’s dark because he can feel his cheeks burning. He hopes Harry can’t see his blush. “I think I have a concussion now.”

He’s thinking that a sixteen-year-old should not be so...well developed...in the...pectoral region. He needs to stop thinking.

Harry just laughs, deep and rumbling.

“Let’s see if they need help with food, yeah?” Louis hurries toward the building. Harry catches up easily.

The hallway of the building is mostly dark. Yellow fluorescent light is pouring out of one open door, the first on the left. Ardmore is that room, which looks like a teachers’ lounge. He is supervising a few students who are stirring things in chafing dishes over small flames.

“We’re all finished with the lights,” Louis says. “Do you need us for anything else?”

“I think we’ve got it covered,” Ardmore replies. “Thanks, boys. See you tomorrow in class, Mr. Tomlinson.”

As Harry and Louis make their way back to the dormitory, they pass quite a few uniformed first years who have spilled out of a dormitory near the east edge of campus. They also see some parents making their way over from the large carpark near the football fields. Mums in pearls, clutching handbags, fathers in suits.

Louis catches Harry staring at some of the parents as they pass, his mouth drooping at the corners.

“Missing Mum, are we, Styles?” Louis asks. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the evening chilliness that has settled in the air.

“Yes.” His answer is sincere. “These parent nights always make me a little homesick.” Harry glances shiftily over at Louis, like he’s nervous that Louis is making fun of him.

For that reason, Louis quietly admits, “Me too, actually.” To lighten the mood, he adds, “You know, my parents never came to these sorts of things, anyway. So I don’t know why they make me feel nostalgic.”

If Louis thought he and Harry could share a laugh at Louis’s silliness, he was wrong. Quite the contrary, Harry’s frown deepens.

“Your parents never went to any Parents’ Weekends? Not at any of the boarding colleges you’ve been to?”

“No, I guess they…” Louis stops. “Hang on, how d’you know that I’ve been more than one previous college?”

“Oh, uh, Niall told me?”

“Is that a question?”

Harry shakes his head, curls bouncing. “Sorry, no.” He clears his throat and thrusts his hands in his pockets, too. “But, yeah, Niall told me. He was pretty impressed by your, erm, colorful past.”

Louis grins because he can tell from his tone that Harry is impressed, too. Or at least intrigued. “Have you gone to Westland since you were a first year, like Liam?”

“Oh, no,” Harry replies. “I did my O-levels and everything back in Holmes Chapel.”

“Oh,” Louis says. “I’m from - not terribly far from there, actually. Doncaster.”

Harry bounces on the balls of his feet as he walks. “My nan lives there! I’ve visited loads of times.”

Louis grins. “No kidding? Wonder if we’ve run into each other before and just didn’t know it. At like, Tesco or something.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, biting his lower lip.

“I haven’t actually spent much time there in a while, you know, with school and everything,” Louis says slowly. “But I’ve been in almost every town north of Sheffield you care to mention. And some you probably don’t care to mention.”

Harry laughs, though it’s not one of Louis’s better jokes, and it’s as though the sound leaps out of Harry’s chest without permission or preparation. It’s a loud, barking sound that sends several birds tittering through the darkened tree branches above the path. Louis stares at him, and Harry claps a hand to his mouth.

They’re passing under a lamp post, and Louis can see Harry’s eyes widen, a blush creeping into his dimpled cheeks. It reminds Louis unpleasantly of a certain scene in a certain locker room. His stomach lurches. Now he feels almost dizzy, all rational thought vacating his brain. He is beginning to doubt he’s ever had a rational thought in his life. He knocks his elbow against Harry’s. The movement in his blazer makes a swishing sound.

Louis tucks his elbow back against his body. He breathes in the cool night air and shivers.

After a moment, Harry says, “It’s nice, though, that you’ve gotten to see so many places. I’ve not seen much other than Holmes Chapel and here.”

Louis chances another glance at Harry. He’s gazing at Louis with a calm, steady expression, as though the previous loaded moment between them had never existed. Louis lets out a breath.

“Really? You’ve only been two places?” he asks. The corners of his mouth quirk up.

Harry’s nose scrunches for a moment while he thinks. “No,” he says. “I’ve also been to London twice, and Dublin once.”

“Wait - really? That’s all?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I mean, my dad left us when I was really young, so. It was just me and my mum and my sister for a while. We didn’t have much money for traveling.”

Louis feels an odd shiver roll down his spine. “Me too,” he says.

“What?”

“My dad left when I was really young, too,” Louis says. His throat has gone a bit dry.

"Oh,” says Harry. “I’m sorry.”

Louis shakes his head. “No. I mean - me too. I’m sorry that, erm, happened to you. But no, it’s not - it was really a good thing, in the end.” He can feel his hands twitching at his sides. Harry’s elbow knocks into his again. His mind goes temporarily numb, and all he can think about is the cool night air on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says quietly. “I don’t talk about my father with many people. Or, anyone really.”

Harry is staring at him with wide, green, endlessly deep eyes. “Oh?”

“I mean.” Louis swallows. He is impressed with himself for staying on the path instead of losing himself in those fucking eyes and walking into a lamp post or building. “Nobody ever really asks. Because why would they? And I certainly don’t bring it up.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Harry says quickly.

“No, it’s - it’s fine,” says Louis. “I just - my point is…”

When Harry’s elbow comes to rest against his this time, it stays there for a few extra seconds. It’s like they’re glued together. Like the connection is the only thing holding Louis to the earth. His brain spins out of control and his heart accelerates against his ribs. Part of him is aware of how ridiculous it is to be walking next to someone with your arm held out stiffly against theirs, but most of him doesn’t care. Harry slowly reels his arm back in.

“I guess we have more in common than I thought,” Louis says.

Harry nods.

\--

When they part ways, Louis stopping on the third floor landing of the dormitory and Harry climbing up to the fourth, Louis can’t shake the warm feeling in his stomach. Thoughts of curls and elbows and dimples and green, green eyes swirl around in his mind until he thinks he might vomit.

He makes his way down the hall to his room and manages to get the key into the lock with shaking hands. When he pushes the door open, Zayn is sitting cross-legged on the rug with a canvas in his lap. He’s smearing colors across it with his fingers, reds weaving through yellows and culminating in blues. Somehow, the hues make his skin feel even hotter. Like he’s burning up under his clothes.

Louis throws his bag on his bed, shucks off his blazer, and peels his shirt apart without bothering with individual buttons. They pop open as he pulls the fabric. He yanks the shirt over his head and flings it on the ground.

Zayn glances up at him.

“Shower,” Louis mutters. He stumbles out of the room, grabbing the towel from the back of his desk chair as he goes. He wanders into the (blessedly) deserted communal showers, the sound of his footsteps echoing loudly off the wide tiles that cover the walls.

The last shower stall is tucked against the back wall, and Louis slides into it, closing the plastic curtain behind him. He peels off his pants and trousers and tosses them over the curtain rod. He shivers again, although his skin still feels like it might go up in flames at any moment.

He lets the water cascade over him, hotter than it needs to be. A red flush blooms under his skin, covers his shoulders and arms and stomach. He closes his eyes and turns, allowing the pressure of the spray to press into his lower back. He takes four deep breaths. Five. Six.

The coiled tension begins to dissipate from his muscles, and he no longer feels like he’s on fire. With the release, though, comes the affirmation of the root of the problem. The tension from his muscles has collected in his groin, and he groans quietly, feeling both protected and empowered by the sound of the water hitting the tiles.

He allows his hand to slip between his thighs and grip his dick firmly. He experimentally slides his wet hand up and down the shaft a few times, a sigh escaping from between his lips. It’s been a long time, and his body is buzzing from the first few tugs.

Louis tightens his grip and moves his hand faster, his heart beginning to hammer loudly in his ears, blood streaming hot through his veins. The fire under his skin is back, but it’s a low heat. The kind that builds and builds but never burns.

He closes his eyes more tightly and lets his mind drown. Water running down his shoulders, along his arms, down to the wrist where Harry touched him. Harry. Curls and dimples and deep green eyes. Harry has a hollow at the base of his throat where his skin dips just slightly between his obtrusive collar bones. Louis wants to know what that hollow tastes like. He wants to understand the flavors of that pale skin where the blood boils close to the surface. He wants to know what the rest of the planes of Harry’s body look like. He wants to feel them move under his hands.

When he comes, it’s with a fleeting shout, his hand gradually slowing as his cum washes down the drain. His mind rejoins his senses, and the relaxed, warm feeling that rests in his stomach is mingled with the dead weight of dread. He blinks the water out of his eyes and shuts off the shower, reaching for his towel.

_Fuck._

Louis scrubs hard at his hair with the towel, as though he can wick away all the thoughts that scare him along with the water. He wraps it around his waist, grabs his clothes, and wanders back out into the hallway. When he re-enters the room, Zayn is in exactly the same position.

Louis walks to his dresser and pulls a fresh pair of pants on under his towel. Then he lets the towel fall to the floor in a wet heap and crawls into bed.

“It’s only eight,” Zayn says.

Louis hums in reply, folding his arms behind his head and staring at the off-white ceiling above him.

“Have you decided what color I am yet?”

Zayn shakes his head, his lips pressed together firmly. He doesn’t look at Louis, but instead continues to make sweeping motions across the canvas with his paint-coated fingers. “You’re complicated,” he says.

Louis closes his eyes. Ashamed as he is to admit it, a couple of tears leak out. It’s not until several hours later, when Zayn finally rests his canvas back in his easel and turns off the lights, that his mind finally allows him to drift off.

\--

Louis can’t calm his frenetic thoughts the next day, either. He cringes about it internally all through Philosophy and afterwards, as he’s walking the broad hallways of one of the buildings.

As a general rule, Louis doesn’t allow himself to think about anyone or anything in particular when he wanks. He likes letting his mind to go completely blank, focusing on nothing but the slide of his hand and the heat of his skin and the tightness that builds in his muscles. It’s a bit like meditation.

But last night, he got off by thinking about Harry. Louis doesn’t know what Harry smells like, but just imagining it had him spilling all over himself within minutes.

And that’s a fact. There is no way to spin it. There is no way to make it not true.

When Louis had been younger, he had “dated” girls in the way that all primary school boys date. There was hand-holding, and slow dancing at formals with six feet of space between bodies under the watchful eyes of the parent volunteers, and sometimes kissing. He’d never outright disliked it, but he’d never felt that spark you see in films. He’d never felt that yearning in his body for someone else, like you wanted to touch them and be near them all the time and memorize the shape of their hands and know everything about them down to their childhood best friend’s middle name.

Not until now.

He’s sensed that he appreciates the male form more than what might be considered “normal.” He knows he shouldn’t appreciate the way Harry looks in his trousers or the way Zayn’s cheekbones move when he talks as much as he does. But he’s never actually acted on something like that before. The realization has his lunch curdling in his stomach.

Louis adjusts the strap of his bag and frowns to himself.

“Mr. Tomlinson?”

Shit, shit, bugger, etc.

Louis looks up to see Professor Holbrook standing outside of his classroom. He’s wearing a tweed jacket over his stooped shoulders and a smile on his face.

“Afternoon, Professor,” Louis says.

“I wanted to talk to you about your last essay. Do you have a moment?”

Louis does. He follows the literature professor into his classroom and thinks that this week cannot possibly get any worse. He’s probably about to get in trouble for using curse words in his essay. Which, to be fair, he only included to make a specific point.

“You’re a wonderful writer,” Professor Holbrook says without preamble. It takes the older man about twenty-seven minutes to sit down in the chair behind his desk. He can’t seem to get his balance right. Louis just kind of stands there in front of him until he says, “Take a seat.”

Louis slides into one of the desks closest to Professor Holbrook’s.

“Your discussion of the connection between power and gender in Macbeth is particularly inspired,” Professor Holbrook offers Louis a small smile that Louis doesn’t quite know what to do with. He knows that he’s intelligent, of course. You don’t get kicked out of multiple competitive colleges and let back into equally respectable ones without some measure of intelligence. But no one (aside from his mother) ever tells him this directly to his face.

“Er, thank you?” Louis replies.

“I would suggest using fewer expletives in academic writing,” Professor Holbrook lifts his bushy eyebrows in an attempt to appear stern. “At least, generally. You are always welcome to utilize whatever language you feel is best within the confines of my classroom.”

Louis smirks at that. Maybe old Holbrook isn’t as archaic as his “groovy” statements and beanbag chairs.

“Have you thought at all about what you’d like to do after college?”

Louis shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

Holbrook nods. “That’s fine, you know. They’ll tell you it’s not, but it is. They’ll tell you to start applying at Oxford and Cambridge, but...you’ll figure it out.” He winks.

They talk a little bit more about his essay, and Louis starts to feel more settled. Here he is, being a normal student, talking to his professor about his work. He almost feels good, actually. Like he’s really starting to belong at Westland.

When he leaves the classroom, he feels lighter. Holbrook is right. He’ll figure it out.

\--

 _Ups and downs_ , Louis thinks as he sits alone on the bus back from the First Round Match. It had gone about as badly as it could have gone. The only good thing that he could say about it was that it had been a draw and not a loss, so their standing in the tournament is not completely ruined.

Louis knows, too, that Liam is disappointed with him. Practices had been going so well. Like Harry said when they were decorating for the First Year’s Social, Louis and Harry work well together. Louis always somehow knows where Harry will be, it’s like a sixth sense, and Harry always knows how to open himself up to Louis. The more they get to know each other, the more seamlessly they play in practice.

Not today, though. Ever since The Shower Incident, Louis has been trying to avoid Harry. It’s hard because Harry is so friendly, and the last thing that Louis wants is to hurt his feelings again. But his pants now feel uncomfortably tight whenever he makes eye contact with Harry. So. He has had to stop looking at him.

It’s showing up on the field, too, the after-effects of The Shower Incident. Louis can still read Harry and where he’s going to be, but he can’t seem to translate that to successful passes. Liam even pulled him out of the game toward the beginning of the second half, his playing was so abysmal. He was way too distracted.  Sure, he could tell exactly where Harry was, but he had also lost all concept of every other player’s existence.

So Zayn played in Louis’s stead. And no one really wants to think about how that went.

In fact, that’s what Louis is definitely _not_ thinking about as he stares out of the bus window at the passing fields as they hurtle down the motorway. No, he’s definitely not remembering how Zayn literally ran away from the ball when an opposing player ran toward him. He’s certainly not visualising Zayn ducking when Niall kicked a corner that could easily have been converted into a score.

Because that would make him feel sick to his stomach and he does not want to throw up on this bus.

He tries eavesdropping to force himself to think about something else. Rodgers and one of his mates, Michael Doyle, are in front of Louis. They’re badmouthing the other team’s players.

“He was a right tosser,” Doyle says about one of the forwards. “Kept trying to trip me, didn’t he?”

“Looked like a bit of a twink if you ask me,” Rodgers replies darkly. “Cared about his hair, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Louis’s ears go red.

“Yeah, he was definitely a fag,” Doyle agrees. The word sets Louis’s veins on fire.

Rodgers shakes his head. “That’s just wrong, d’you know what I mean? It’s just unnatural.”

Louis is contemplating jumping out of the window. This is his punishment for listening to other people’s conversations. He wishes he had a Walkman to listen to.

“I can’t believe they let someone like that play on the team.”

Liam suddenly sits down next to Louis. “Hey, mate, you alright?” Louis shrugs, the shocked haze fading from his vision as he takes in Liam’s concerned frown. “I wanted to apologize for pulling you, but, you know, it…”

“It’s okay, I know I was lousy,” Louis says quickly. “I think...I’m not feeling well.”

“We’ll get ‘em next time,” Liam says dully, clapping Louis on the shoulder in a perfunctory manner. Then he goes back to his seat next to Zayn, who is, perhaps, the only person on this bus looking more miserable than Louis.

Pretty much all of the players are subdued, quietly talking, staring out of the windows, or listening to music. Louis can hear Harry giggling at whatever Niall just said to him over the sound of tires on the motorway. He swallows hard.

Tipping his head back, he closes his eyes and imagines being somewhere, anywhere else.

\--

Louis punishes himself by spending the rest of the evening on the empty pitch. He stays seated longer than necessary on the bus after it parks at Westland, letting as many of his teammates off before him as possible. When the cluster of them all start walking off toward the Stamford Arms, their spirited conversations and matching kits growing smaller across the grounds, Louis swings around the other side of the bus and takes off in the opposite direction.

The equipment shed is locked, but there’s an abandoned football lying against one of the fences. It’s grass-stained and peeling, but it’s still nice and solid. Louis kicks it onto the center of the pitch and starts pounding shots into the goal. He doesn’t stop to breathe, just jogs to the net to retrieve the ball and then runs it back out. He shoots from as many different angles and positions as he can think of. He practices bicycle kicks, even though attempting one at a match in Westland’s mediocre league would probably be laughable. He lands flat on his back several times and gets the wind knocked out of him once. His kit hangs defeated and stained and wrinkled from his body.

He pushes himself until he can barely breathe. It’s practically dark out, but the constant movement has created an ache in his legs and his lungs that have effectively silenced all of his other thoughts. He’s backing up to take another ridiculous and unnecessarily forceful shot when he hears someone clear their throat.

He whips around. Harry is staring at him, his hand wrapped around the necks of two beer bottles.

“Thought you might be here,” he says.

Louis stops, resting one foot on the ball and attempting to look like he isn’t gasping for air.

“Stalking me, Styles?” he wheezes out.

Harry shrugs, smirking and moving closer to Louis. “You didn’t show up at the pub.”

Louis blinks and watches Harry tuck the bottles under the hem of his shirt. His bicep bulges obscenely as he twists the caps off, and Louis accepts the bottle Harry offers him with a slight tremor in his hand.

The first sip is cold and fizzy and delicious. It sears the back of his throat as he gulps it down.

“Didn’t feel much like celebrating,” Louis says.

“Why not?” Harry asks, teasing the ball from under Louis’s foot and kicking it off to the side of the pitch. “We didn’t completely blow it.”

“Perhaps you didn’t notice,” Louis says slowly, “but I got pulled for playing like a tit.”

He’s silently hoping to extract another one of those wild, rebellious shout-laughs from Harry, though he doesn’t know why. But instead, Harry frowns.

“You weren’t playing like a tit.”

Louis cocks his head at him, taking another swig of his beer.

“Okay, well. You were maybe a little off. But you’re a sharp shooter as it is. I think you’re beating a dead horse out here.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious,” says Harry. “If anything, you need to be with the team. Bonding, and all that. Not to mention that Liam went slightly mental when we realized you weren’t there.”

Louis has his beer poised at his lips, but lowers it immediately. The rim snags on his lower lip when he pulls it down.

“Liam’s mad?”

“No, just worried,” says Harry. “He relaxed when I said I’d come find you.”

“And why did you?”

Harry has settled down in the grass, his giraffe legs folded beneath him. “Why did I come find you?”

Louis nods, lowering himself to the grass next to Harry. They sit side-by-side facing the flat expanse of the pitch, their knees only about ten centimeters from touching.

Harry pauses for a moment. “Because I wanted to know where you were,” he says.

They allow a comfortable silence to settle between them as they sip on their beers and watch sunset oranges fade to navy. Louis can’t think of anything to say, but he’s buzzing now, probably a bit dehydrated. He feels warm and relaxed. He can’t quite feel the things that have been worrying him all day - they’re fuzzy and out of reach - but the knots in his shoulders speak for themselves. He wriggles a bit to try to work them out, and then he drains his beer and flops backward on the grass.

Harry is quick to react, lowering his body much more gracefully to the grass and stretching out his long limbs. Louis can hear him breathing. There are no stars visible in the sky.  Low-hanging clouds are swirling gray and black above them.

“Thanks,” says Louis.

Harry rolls over to face him, propping his head up on his elbow.

“What for?” he asks.

Louis blinks at him a few times. He can still make out each of Harry's matted curls in the dark. “For - y’know. The beer.”

Harry looks at him for an extra moment, his expression neutral, before he rolls back over to face the sky. “You’re welcome,” he says.

_******  
** _


	5. Chapter 5

_**October, 1985** _

Zayn sits up so fast when Liam bursts into their dorm room that _The Republic_ slides off of his bed and onto the floor with a thwump. He stares at Liam, a strange look on his face, like a cross between wonderment and horror.

“I’ve done it!” Liam’s eyes are ablaze, his chest puffed with pride. His school tie is askew, his short brown hair as mussed as it possibly can be.

“Done what?” Louis asks. He’s sitting at the desk, his pencil poised above a particularly complicated maths equation.

“Given us a heart attack?” Zayn suggests. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“Sorry, I’m just rather excited,” Liam bounces on the balls of his feet. “The headmaster has agreed to the Halloween party!”

“Oh, ace, Liam, that’s great,” Louis says. Liam hasn’t been able to talk about much else the past couple of days. As Head Boy and basically King of Westland, Liam has been trying to organize more events. He confessed to Louis that he wants to make his last year really count. And, apparently, part of “really counting” is throwing an American-inspired Halloween party for all of the students staying on campus for the half-term holiday next week.

Zayn retrieves his book and considers it carefully. “Bit down to the wire, innit?”

Liam waves a hand in what he probably thinks is a careless manner but actually looks quite manic. “You’re both staying, aren’t you?”

After an uncomfortable pause, Zayn says slowly, “Yes.” Louis’s smile has frozen on his face. They both know what Liam is going to say before the words leave his mouth.

“Excellent, you both can help, then,” Liam beams.

“But I already helped with a thing this month,” Louis whines.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

Louis groans, letting his head fall forward dramatically, resting his forehead against the desk. He hears footsteps shuffling up behind him.

“Need I remind someone,” Liam’s voice says over Louis’s hunched shoulder, “that someone is trying to make a good impression here? And that extra volunteer hours would look really good on someone’s record?”

Louis lifts his head to glare at Liam. “Someone hates you.”

Liam chuckles and squeezes Louis’s shoulder before turning away. Louis spins around in his chair so that he is straddling the back of the seat.

“So,” he says, “What all is this ‘helping’ going to entail?”

Liam shrugs and then seats himself on Louis’s disheveled bed. “Just, erm,” he says slowly, winding his fingers through the wrinkles in Louis’s sheets, “Setting things up, and er...taking them down.”

Louis nods. “Okay.”

“And, uh. Costumes.”

Louis’s face splits into a slow grin, while Zayn slams his book down on the mattress again. “Costumes?” he repeats, his mouth hanging open slightly.

“Yeah. It’s a Halloween party!”

Zayn groans and flops back down onto the bed. “Knowing you lot, you’re going to want to go as some insufferable group costume. Like a box of crayons or some shit.”

Louis has to cover his mouth to suppress his laughter. Liam’s mouth is twisted into a grimace that might be trying to hide a fond smile.

“Nope,” Liam says to the dejected heap that is Zayn, “I already know what I’m going as.”

“What, then?”

“Not telling.”

\--

After draining a beer under a starless sky with Harry, Louis feels less tense on the pitch. Their scrimmage against the team from Lancaster the following weekend goes almost embarrassingly well - he and Harry are back to reading each other like they’re speaking the same silent language, whispering to each other through the rustle of their shorts as they run parallel lines across the grass. Louis’s mind is a cliche place, he sometimes thinks - the moment when Harry passed him the ball at the end of the first half is slowed down when he replays it to himself, like a cheap film effect.

Louis was wide open, and the goalkeeper for the Lancaster team had no idea how to read Louis’s fake shots, and Harry was all dimples and grinning and brown curls pushed back with a red headband that made his green irises glow obscenely brightly in the sun. And that was goal number three.

They defeat the Lancaster team five-nil in the end, and even though his success doesn’t officially help the team’s record, Louis sees no reason why he shouldn’t allow himself to get pissed to commemorate the occasion.

The five of them - Louis’s core group of friends at Westland, as he’s come to accept it - are crowded around a small pub table that’s really only meant for two. The surface is covered in empty pint glasses and the remnants of a large mountain of chips. (They’d each bought two orders, and then they’d all dumped them in the middle of the table to share. Niall had refused to stop referring to it as The Great Chip Expedition of 1985.)

Three pints deep, Louis’s vision is beginning to blur around the edges. Liam hiccups, and Zayn lets out a delighted, rumbling laugh. Liam grins lazily.

Niall pounds his fist on the table, making the empty glasses shake slightly. “We need more beer!” He disappears from the table, and Louis can see his shock of blond hair maneuvering through the small crowd near the bar. An elbow slides along the edge of the table and knocks into his.

Louis blinks up at Harry, whose cheeks are flushed endearingly and whose lips appear darker than usual for some reason. They’re the color of cherries.

Louis face relaxes into a grin that feels too large and enthusiastic. Part of his brain knows this, but most of his brain can’t be arsed to care. Not when there’s a lovely, flushed Harry smiling back at him.

A slight tremor in his stomach reminds Louis that he shouldn’t be thinking those things so freely. Harry is a man. A friend. A man friend. A gorgeous, lovely, flushed man friend who Louis thought about while wanking recently.

Louis frowns and steals a couple of soggy chips off the pile and plops them onto his tongue. They’re unnervingly chilly, but they sit heavy in his stomach and stop it from squirming as much.

“I’ve returned, now calm the hell down,” Niall shouts at them as he sets the five pints he was somehow carrying on the table amongst the empties. Louis narrows his eyes at Niall, and then he realizes that the four of them have been sitting in silence, save for Liam’s hiccupping. Another grin sneaks its way onto Louis’s face.

“Cheers, Tommo,” Niall says, catching Louis’s eye and returning his smile. He reaches across the chip pile and clinks his glass against Louis’s. “Drink up.”

Louis drains half of the pint in a gulp. He licks his lips as he sets it back down, glancing around the table. Harry is staring at him slightly slack-jawed. He pretends not to notice, but he feels like there’s suddenly several more meters’ worth of space between his brain and his lungs.

Louis smirks. “So, Harold,” he says, fuzziness expanding into the corners of his brain, “tell me about yourself.” He resists a momentary, ridiculous urge to reach up and twist one of Harry’s curls around his finger. He settles instead for repeating Harry’s earlier action and knocks his elbow into Harry’s along the edge of the table.

Harry’s eyes widen comically, his dimples making an encore appearance. Louis pretty much wants to clap every time this happens. Which is stupid. “Tell you about myself?” Harry laughs.

Louis nods. The light above their table seems to have dimmed, and he can’t seem to focus on anything besides the boy next to him. The others are talking about something that is making Liam snort with laughter, but Louis doesn’t want to look away from Harry. “Yes. I want to know all the things.”

Harry shakes his head, still smiling. “There’s not much to know.”

“Sure there is!” Louis raises his fist and taps his knuckles gently against Harry’s hairline. Harry’s eyes go even wider. “There are tons of things lurking under here, I know it. Hello?” Louis asks quietly. He moves his face closer to Harry’s jawline, which, he notes, despite the baby fat that lingers along the edges, is still strong and pronounced. “Hello?” he asks again, his words dripping into Harry’s ear. “Anybody home?”

Harry laughs and bats Louis away, but Louis can tell it’s meant to be playful because Harry is blushing even deeper. Louis chest thrums at the realization that he caused the ruddy stain on that ivory skin. His stomach doesn’t lurch with dread this time. He’s too filled with a delicious sort of excited apprehension.

“Well,” Harry says, “Um, I already told you I grew up in Holmes Chapel. And that I never really knew my dad very well. But erm - did I tell you about my sister?”

“You mentioned that she exists, is all,” Louis says, lifting his pint again.

Harry nods. “Right. Well, she does. Her name is Gemma. She’s a couple years older than me, but we’ve always gotten on really well. She’s, erm - my best friend, really.”

Louis pulls another gulp from his glass and sets it back down. He wipes his mouth hurriedly on the back of his hand. “That’s lucky, that you get along so well,” he says.

Harry nods again. “Yeah, it is. I miss her a lot when I’m at school.” The flush on his cheeks grows a shade darker, and he ducks his head. “And now I’ve told you that I get homesick for not only my mum, but also my big sister when I’m away at school. So. You can start making fun of me any time.” He’s smiling at his lap, like he’s trying to make Louis think he’s kidding, but his dimples are gone.

Louis feels his chest constrict at the sight - it’s not quite the Locker Room Incident sad face, but it’s too close for Louis’s comfort. He can’t help it - he reaches out and rests his hand gently on Harry’s where it sits on the table. Harry’s head snaps back up, and his wide green eyes search Louis’s frantically.

“I’m not going to make fun of you,” Louis says as seriously as he can with his mind swimming with alcohol and nerves. “Not for that, anyway.”

Harry nods, never taking his eyes off of Louis’s face.

\--

“Ahhh, lads,” Niall sings as the five of them make their way back across the grounds in the dark, the Stamford Arms having pointed out several minutes prior that they were, in fact, the only customers left, and that they should, in fact, leave. “I’ll never forget the Great Chip Charade of 1985.”

Zayn bursts into giggles from where he’s tucked under Louis’s arm, and Louis has enough presence of mind to raise his eyebrows at that.

“Nialler,” Liam says from somewhere to the right, “That’s not right! Oomf!” A dull thud reaches Louis’s ears over Zayn’s continued giggles. Louis stops in his tracks a little too quickly and he sways.

“Li? Did you fall over?” Louis asks. Zayn giggles even harder.

“I did!” Liam exclaims in surprise. Then he sighs. “I’m too drunk to be Head Boy. I’m gonna be fired.”

Zayn is doubled over in silent laughter, and Louis can’t do much in terms of maneuvering. He senses someone else moving around the cluster made of him and Zayn, and then he hears Harry’s voice from the right, near to where Liam must be.

“You’re not going to be fired,” Harry says gently. “Come on - up you go!”

Harry heaves Liam to his feet and tucks him under an arm. They continue their uncoordinated hobble across the grass with Niall galloping and yelping ahead of them.

“What if they cancel the Halloween party as punishment?” Liam continues to fret in Harry’s grip. “What if they take away my badge? Oh shit! My mum already bought a special frame for it! She’ll have to return it!”

Harry says something quietly to Liam that Louis can’t quite hear. Zayn has stopped giggling, thankfully, but has begun to drag his feet exaggeratedly across the grass as he walks.

When they finally reach the dormitory, Niall skips off toward his room without so much as a shouted goodbye. Louis and Harry pause in the hallway outside Louis and Zayn’s room. Zayn has his head balanced on Louis’s shoulder, and Liam is clutching at Harry’s arm like a lost puppy. Louis slides his key out of his pocket and nods at Harry, his vision still swimming slightly.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he says, pausing with the key in the lock.

Harry’s eyes crinkle as his cherry lips curl up into a kind smile. “Night, Lou,” he says. Then he and Liam do the world’s most awkward walking-three-point turn in the hallway and shuffle off.

Louis gets the door to his room unlocked and presses it open with his free shoulder. He yanks Zayn inside unceremoniously, but Zayn just giggles again and slumps against Louis as he fumbles for the light switch.

“Christ, Zayn, what is it with the giggling?”

As soon as he can see, Louis heaves Zayn onto his bed. Zayn is lying slightly crooked, with his head not quite high enough to meet his pillow and his legs hanging off the side. Louis thinks for a moment, and then he yanks Zayn’s trainers off and throws his legs up onto the bed.

Zayn’s forehead wrinkles with confusion. He’s lying limply in an awkward s-shape. “You didn’t untie my shoes,” he says.

Louis rolls his eyes and immediately regrets it because the room continues spinning on it’s own afterward. He throws his rumpled football kit on the middle of the floor, flicks off the light, and stumbles blindly toward his bed. He slides under his duvet wearing only his boxers.

In darkness, he can feel Zayn’s eyes on him.

“What is it, Z?” Louis asks, rolling over to face the direction of Zayn’s bed. Zayn’s dark eyes are glinting in the thin line of moonlight stretching across his side of the room.

“Liam’s _so_ funny.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees on a yawn, his alcohol-infused thoughts beginning to slow down and blur together. His eyes flick up to the blood red ceiling above Zayn’s bed, which, in the shadows, simply looks like a darker shade of black than everything else.

“I’ve got such a crush on that bloke.”

Louis is swimming in a haze, his mind too slow to comprehend what he’s hearing. When it connects, when Zayn’s words suddenly come together in a sentence in Louis’s mind, he sits straight up in bed.

“What did you just say?”

Zayn just chuckles softly. “Great chip expedition,” he mumbles. And then Louis hears his breaths deepen and even out.

Louis continues to stare blankly at the ceiling long after Zayn’s quiet snores fill the room.

\--

Louis should have realized, knowing Liam, that “setting up” for the Halloween party wasn’t going to be anything like setting up for the First Years’ Social. Liam has never done anything halfway in the two months that Louis has known him, so it shouldn’t be surprising that he is spending his Friday off for half term - the day _before_ the party - carving pumpkin after pumpkin.

His only consolation is that there are three other lads sitting around a table in the common room with him, their faces screwed up in various states of concentration as they all hack away at their own pumpkins. Along the wall behind them, there is a row of fifteen finished Jack O’Lanterns, followed by at least thirty blank, faceless pumpkins. Louis glances at the collection, then up at Liam, who is sprawled on the sofa, scribbling away at his legal pad.

They are lucky that they are the oldest boys in Auden Hall, because quite a few students have remained for the fall half-term. Liam’s seniority has helpfully guaranteed them the best spots in the lounge, right in front of the television. Louis thinks that most of the boys who signed up to stay did so because Liam managed to convince the headmaster to invite students from Holy Trinity - the all-girls school a few villages away - to the Halloween party.

Nothing like the lure of girls to get boys to attend school-related functions.

“Liam,” Louis says, setting his knife down on the table and stretching his arms over his head. Little bursts of relief pop along his previously hunched shoulders.

“Mm,” Liam responds, not bothering to look up from his notes.

“Let’s take a break for dinner, yeah?” Louis says. The other three boys around the table pause what they’re doing and look up at him. Louis thinks he can see relief written in their expressions.

That gets Liam’s attention. “Wha?” He glances at his watch. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t realize what time it was.”

Niall gets up to order two large pizzas from the phone in the corner, having long since memorized the number to the only pizza shop within delivery distance. They get up from the cramped little table that has been their carving station for several hours and drape themselves over the couches and beanbags. Zayn flops over the back of the sofa where Louis has plopped himself dramatically into the cushions. Liam stays with his notepad, apparently operating under the impression that break time does not apply to him.

Harry sprawls his long limbs out across the floor, one of his shoes just barely nudging the toe of Louis’s trainers where his leg hangs over the side of the couch. Louis doesn’t move, and neither does Harry.

When the pizza arrives, Louis flips on the telly and the five of them converge on the food like a pack of starving hyenas. They eat in relative silence, save for the sounds of the _Blackadder_ marathon on the screen and the occasional guffaw of laughter if someone caught one of the jokes. They polish off both pizzas easily, leaving nothing but a few crumbs, and then they continue to lie about uselessly.

Louis suspects they’re all feeling the same reluctance to get back to the carving. His upper back aches from hunching over all those lanterns and his hands are tinged orange. They will probably smell like pumpkin forever. Damn Liam and his earnest eyes - Louis has never had this problem before. Having too many volunteer commitments was not a part of Louis Tomlinson’s list of issues in life.

Zayn is the first to get up. “C’mon, lads,” he says, his voice full of a weariness that Louis can commiserate with. “Let’s get them finished.”

Niall groans. “Don’t you think we have enough?”

Louis sits up and looks back at the row of pumpkins. It’s funny - seeing them all lined up together makes it apparent who carved which pumpkins. Harry’s are all neatly carved, traditional Jack O’Lanterns with even triangle eyes and proportionate smiles or surprised faces. Zayn’s don’t have faces at all. Instead, his pumpkins have designs carved into them, like witches with warty noses and arched-back cats and one even says “Happy Halloween!” in swooping letters. Louis’s are all faces, like Harry’s, but they’re much messier. They are all making ridiculous expressions (several are cross-eyed, but only some of those were done on purpose). And Niall has carved the same two-toothed smiling pumpkin face over and over again.

Liam is frowning. “I - well,” he says, “I had planned…” He glances down at his notes, where Louis can see what looks like a sketch of the dormitory quadrangle with little stars where he plans on setting the pumpkins. “But, if you’re really sick of it…” He trails off again, not raising his eyes from his legal pad.

Harry sits up from his curled-up position on the floor. He cracks his knuckles. “I, for one, could never be sick of pumpkins. Where’s your holiday spirit, Nialler?” His voice, unlike Zayn’s, betrays no sense of weariness, but instead leaves Louis suspecting that carving pumpkins is one of Harry’s favorite pastimes.

Louis stares at Harry’s back as he walks back towards the table, his long sleeved henley a bit wrinkled from being curled up on the ground, his sleeves pushed up just above his elbows. Harry rakes a hand through his curls (a habit that Louis has noticed happens when Harry’s nervous or tired, not that Louis’s been paying attention because that would be worryingly unusual) and he applies himself to the largest remaining pumpkin. Harry’s unsinkable selflessness has been obvious since the day they met, since Harry gave Louis all those smiles at his first practice, trying to make him feel comfortable and welcomed. But sometimes Harry’s kindness still catches Louis by surprise, causing a simmering warmth to bubble up in his chest when he least expects it.

Liam is watching the rest of them with a guarded expression. “Really - if you don’t want to…”

But Zayn has already seated himself across from Harry at the table. He’s plopping squelchy pumpkin guts onto a pile of what looks like carnage on a newspaper next to him. Niall slinks off the couch and starts moving across the room before Liam can even finish his sentence. Louis smiles reassuringly at Liam, and then follows his friends.

When Louis sits down, Harry tosses him a ridiculous smirk and a wink, which Louis uses as inspiration for his next several pumpkin faces.

\--

“The Great Pumpkin Marathon of 1985” (another formally titled event on the timeline of Niall) is made entirely worth the trouble when Louis steps onto the quad the following evening, sunset just starting to turn the sky a thematic purple and orange mess on the horizon. Liam has strategically placed their Jack O’Lanterns along the walkways, lighting the main paths through the center of campus. The display culminates at the fountain in the center of the quad, which has been turned off. Instead of the water bubbling up in the middle, the pumpkins are situated around the edges of the fountain and along the big step pyramid in the center, their flickering smiles both sinister and romantic.

He hears a quiet huff from next to him, and he turns his head to see Zayn at his shoulder. “I told him I’d help,” he says. “He did all this himself?”

Louis shrugs. “Maybe he wanted to surprise us? Or maybe he felt bad that we were up until two in the bloody morning carving pumpkins...”

Zayn sighs again. “Was worth it though,” he adds. “This is brilliant.”

“Amazing,” Louis agrees. He allows a few seconds, and then, “Zayn?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to talk about anything?”

Zayn shoots him a quizzical look. “Er. No? Not that I know of. Why?”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “You told me something the other night that I thought was kind of... odd.”

Zayn is impassive. “The other night when?”

“After the pub.”

“Oh,” Zayn laughs. “I was thoroughly pissed, mate.” He claps Louis on the shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks for the concern, but whatever it was, I’m sure it wasn’t important.”

“I’m gonna find Liam,” Zayn says. His hand drops off of Louis’s shoulder. “See what he needs.” As Zayn walks off down the path, Louis sees him dig in his pockets for a moment and emerge with his trusty Benson and Hedges. Louis can just barely see the burst of yellow from his lighter flicker up along the edge of his sharp jawline as he shuffles away.

Something twists in Louis’s stomach - something like fear or dread, but not quite, not entirely.

When he goes up to change into his costume, Louis passes Niall hanging fake bats from the trees along the quad, and Liam and Zayn setting up the common room with food and decorations. Since it turned out to be such a nice night, most of the festivities will take place outside. Liam already set up half a dozen apple bobbing stations in the grassy sections of the quad. But they decided they should put the food and drinks in the Auden Hall common room, and then encourage people to hang out outside where there will be music and, hopefully, girls to talk to.

There are a few younger boys playing in the hallway when Louis reaches his floor. They’re already excitable, probably having eaten through loads of candy sent from home. As housemaster, Professor Holbrook is going to be busy tonight trying to control his charges.

Louis is excited about his costume, despite having had to pull his costume together at the last minute (although, given that the party was approved so late in October, most of it was a scramble to put together). A few of the boys took a trip down to the village consignment shop to pick up odds and ends, but Louis already had everything that he needed.

His stepfather had gone on a business trip to Italy years ago and he had taken a day to visit Venice. He brought back miniature, sparkly Venetian masks for all of Louis’s sisters. For Louis, he had purchased a full-size Venetian devil mask, complete with horns, that comes down to the tops of cheekbones. It’s burnt red and the eye openings are slanted malevolently under mischievous eyebrows. The nose of the mask is large and pointed.

Louis tries not to think about the message his stepfather might have been trying to send with this particular gift. He had liked it regardless, and so he’d always taken it with him when he went away to school, just in case, though it had never come in handy until now.

He pulls on a tight black t-shirt and jeans, then affixes the mask to his face with the thick red ribbon attached to each side. Since it’s bound to be chilly, he also throws a red and black flannel shirt over the black t-shirt, wearing it like a jacket.

“Sick mask, mate!” Niall says, stepping into Louis and Zayn’s room. He has cut two holes in a stark white sheet and chucked it over his head like _It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_.

“Niall, you look ridiculous,” Louis says with a laugh because Niall is bouncing around the room, flapping his arms energetically, and essentially acting like one of the sugar-high Year 8s.

“Admit it, you’re a bit frightened of me.”

“I’m terrified,” Louis grins.

“Come on, let’s go down, I think the birds are here.”

“You know, I think if you refer to them as that, they might be less likely to talk to you,” Louis says. He shuts the dorm room door behind them as they head downstairs.

“Aw, come off it mate, they’ll be tripping over themselves to chat me up. I have a bitchin’ costume and everything.”

Louis laughs and shakes his head.

The common room has been transformed in the few minutes that it took Louis to change. Fake, black cobwebs hang from the walls. Along the windows, they’ve set up folding tables laden with plates of candy and biscuits as well as bowls of sanctioned, non-alcoholic punch. Little plastic spiders litter the spaces between food and drinks on the tables.

Professor Holbrook, dressed amusingly as a skeleton in a black onesie with white felt bones, waves to Louis from the corner of the room. A few of the Auden House boys are milling around in the common room.

“We should find Liam soon,” Louis says. He’s looking around at all of Liam’s hard work, pulled together so quickly. “See if we can do anything else to help.” Louis turns to Niall and finds that the boy has, much like an actual ghost, disappeared.

Louis steps outside to find him. The night air is cool and thrumming with music that is pounding out of a nearby boombox. The quad is quickly filling up with students as they spill from their respective dormitories in varying states of fancy dress.

Niall was correct - the “birds”, as he called them, have arrived. Most of them are dressed as Barbie dolls or Madonna, though Louis can’t quite tell which is which. He spots Niall already entertaining a group of witches in matching striped stockings. Niall is one of the few boys actually mingling with members of the opposite sex. Most of the younger boys and girls are hanging out in very separate clumps.

Louis turns around to go back inside to look for his friends. He sees Rodgers exiting Auden Hall with his friends who are all carrying cups of punch. Louis immediately wants to run away. Rodgers is dressed as Freddy Krueger and it’s really rather easy to believe that he might murder someone this evening.

Back inside, he spots Liam speaking to Professor Holbrook and Harry and Zayn talking in a corner. Since Liam is currently preoccupied, he makes his way over to the other two.

Harry’s come as a vampire, wearing a black cape with a high collar and fake fangs. _He can suck my blood anytime_ , Louis thinks before he can stop himself. He’s very glad that mind-reading isn’t a thing.

Zayn is not wearing a costume. He has on a plain white shirt and jeans.

“What the hell, mate, I thought Liam said we had to come in fancy dress!” Louis says as he approaches.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I _am_ in fancy dress.” He reaches into the front pocket of his shirt and produces a pair of thick, slightly square glasses. He slides the glasses on and stares pointedly at Louis, waiting for him to understand.

When Louis doesn’t get it, Harry supplies helpfully, “He’s Allen Ginsberg.”

“Of course he is,” Louis says. He claps Harry on the shoulder. “Now, please, tell me one of you brought booze.”

The three of them find a spot secluded in shadows behind one of the other dormitories. _Hello, I Love You_ floats toward them from the quad on the cool breeze as they pass around a flask of whiskey that Zayn had stashed in his back pocket.

“I like your costume,” Harry says, leaning close to Louis as he says this. The whiskey has apparently gone straight to Harry’s curly head. He’s swaying a little and his grin is wild.

“Thank you,” Louis replies. He snatches the flask out of Zayn’s hand and finishes the rest of it. He’s going to need some liquid courage if Harry continues standing so close to him. “Yours is good as well. Much better than Zayn’s half-arsed attempt.”

Harry grins sheepishly while Zayn scowls.

Now that they are good and tipsy, Louis bordering on drunk, they make their way back to the party. It is properly happening when they return. Several people are bobbing for apples, cheering and laughing and having a good time. Rodgers is sitting on a bench, chatting up a pretty blonde Barbie. Louis gives him a wide berth.

As they wind their way through the party, occasionally stopping to talk to one or another of their classmates, Louis notices that quite a few Trinity girls are watching Zayn. It makes sense. It’s not like Louis hasn’t noticed that his roommate, with his dark eyes, tanned skin and brooding expression, is basically a sex god.

He tries to ignore the fact that quite a few girls are staring at Harry as well. One in particular, a very fit redhead, breaks away from her gaggle of girlfriends and starts walking toward them, her eyes glued to Harry. Louis doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Harry and Zayn by the upper arms and drags them away from where they were talking to Harry’s friend Nick, who was in the middle of a story about clowns.

“C’mon,” Louis says to Zayn’s and Harry’s surprised faces. “We should see if Liam needs help.”

It ends up being good timing, because they find Liam frantically dashing around inside, making sure that there is enough food and punch, consulting his legal pad every few seconds.

“I’m going to get some more whiskey,” Zayn says. He is watching Liam with a slightly worried expression. “Make sure Liam doesn’t self-combust before I get back.”

In spite of his flusteredness, Liam looks great. His costume - a mummy - must have taken days to make. The ripped white cloth is perfectly wrapped, and he’s even added some blood stains to look spookier.

“Hey, Li,” Harry says. “What can we help with?”

Liam looks down at his notepad. “Uhm, well, if you really wouldn’t mind…” Harry and Louis both nod encouragingly. “Harry, could you run up to my room and grab some more Mars Bars? We’re almost out.” Harry takes Liam’s room key and dashes away immediately, cape flapping around his ankles as he goes. Liam looks up at Louis. “Would you mind taking a shift at the punch table? Just make sure we’re good on cups and watch that no one, you know, spikes it or anything? I’m going to check around outside.”

“Okay, sure,” Louis says. Liam smiles.

As Louis takes up his spot behind the tables, he thinks about how if this were any other school event organized by anyone other than Liam, he would probably be the one spiking the punch.

“Evening, Tomlinson,” Professor Ardmore, Louis’s history teacher, has appeared out of the crowd of students in the common room. He takes a glass of punch.

Louis nods in greeting. He doesn’t trust his whiskey-thick tongue to say much of anything.

“Having fun?” Ardmore asks. Louis notices that he isn’t in costume - well, not any costume that is immediately apparent. There’s always a _slight_ possibility that he’s pulling a Zayn and is dressed as something obscure.

“Sure.”

“It’s always nice to see students getting involved with school activities,” Ardmore muses thoughtfully. Louis hums noncommittally. “In fact, I’m working on a bit of fundraising myself at the moment. You did such a nice job with the First Year’s Social and, I suppose, this party, too. Any interest in helping me out again? I’ve asked a few other students, but it’s hard to get them motivated in much, you know.” His eyes glaze over and Louis wonders if Ardmore is thinking about Peters’s disastrous tree decorating.

Louis is tipsy and thinks about how it might impress a certain generous someone with curly hair if he continues to show his helpful side, so he shrugs and says again, “Sure.”

“Well excellent, that’s great,” Ardmore replies. He crumples up his empty plastic cup in one hand. “We can discuss the details more later. I should probably get back to preventing fistfights.”

Harry steps up to the table just as Ardmore walks away. He’s formed a sort of basket with the end of his cape and has filled it with a multitude of Mars Bars, which he dumps onto the table. He smiles up at Louis.

“Need any help babysitting the punch?” Harry asks.

Much as Louis wants to say yes, he also wants someone to make sure that Liam’s head hasn’t exploded. Since Zayn hasn’t come back down yet, Louis suggests that Harry go and find Liam. “Try to make sure he enjoys himself at least a little bit,” he calls to Harry as Harry heads out.

It’s a bit boring watching the punch, actually. After about a minute, Louis regrets sending Harry away. He leans against the wall and watches the other students in the room. He fiddles with his mask a little bit. When he sees Zayn pass, a little bubble of hope forms in his chest that Harry might come back to keep him company.

“Excuse me?” A female voice pulls Louis out of his daydream - him and Harry laughing together and drinking punch laced with some of Zayn’s whiskey out in the flickering light of the Jack O’Lanterns. He focuses now on the girl in front of him. She’s one of the Madonnas that he’d seen earlier - there’s a massive black bow tied in her curled hair and she’s wearing a sheer-ish black dress and fishnets. “Do you have any more cups?”

“Oh, blast, sorry,” Louis leans down to grab a sleeve of plastic cups from a box under the table. “Here you are,” he says as he hands one to the girl.

“Great mask, by the way,” she says as she pours herself some of the punch.

“Cheers.”

“Is it actually from Venice or did you get it from a costume shop?” The girl is gazing at him over the top of her cup. Just behind her, however, Louis can see that the redhead has finally managed to approach Harry. They’re sitting on a sofa together. Harry is smiling. His dimples are out.

It feels as though the whiskey running through Louis’s veins has started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” Louis says to the girl, and he abandons his post without a second thought. He walks right up to Harry, emboldened by the alcohol and the shadows and the nearly tangible feeling in the night air that anything is possible. “Can we go for a walk? I have to get out of here.”

Harry politely excuses himself. The redhead looks equally disgruntled and disappointed, but Louis’s stomach swoops with a kind of vindictive relief.

“Sorry,” Louis says as they walk together through the quad and down a path away from campus, toward the woods and the stream where they had all gone swimming. “I was getting a little...claustrophobic.”

“That’s alright,” Harry replies. His voice is soft. “Are you okay?”

And that, Louis thinks, is a good question, because Louis is both more and less okay than he’s ever been. Day after day, these strange and confusing feelings get stuck in his chest and never leave, like they’re all congealing there and one day they’re going to suffocate him. Feelings of warmth at Harry’s kindness. Feelings of jealousy, not of Harry but the redhead who made his dimples pop. Louis has never had feelings like this before.

He suspects that the congealed mass forming in his chest is going to drown him, or at the very least make him vomit all over the sidewalk, but also that it’s somehow going to carry him up into the clouds.

The whiskey coursing through his veins is setting him on fire, but his thoughts, for once, feel oddly clear.

He raises his eyes to meet Harry’s, which are wide and concerned. Louis thinks of the way they’d sparkled in the fairy lights, and the way they’re catching the stars now. He lifts his devil mask off of his face. And then the knot in chest tugs free, and he surges forward without thinking and connects his lips with Harry’s.

Louis has kissed people - girls - before, and while none of those interactions had been outright unpleasant, none of them felt anything like this. None of those kisses made the world pause on its axis. Louis grabs fistfuls of Harry’s clothes, able to feel nothing and think of nothing but the place where his lips are moving slowly and carefully against Harry’s. He can feel one of Harry’s vampire fangs pressing into his lower lip, and that little twinge of pain makes the arousal in his gut expand.

It also pulls him back to his senses.

Louis pulls away after what has really only been a few seconds, though it feels like much longer, and his brain refuses to stop spinning. It takes him another few seconds to remember that he has Harry’s cape clenched in his hands. He has to consciously tell his fingers to relax so that he can release Harry.

Harry is standing frozen on the sidewalk. Louis can tell he is paler than usual, even under the white costume makeup he has smeared across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. The words tumble out of his mouth with urgency, and his stomach is knotted for entirely different reasons than it was moments ago. He needs to do something - anything - besides continue to look at Harry. So he takes off down the path, back towards the quad and the lights and the music.

The pumpkins that line the path leer at him as he goes - especially Harry’s neatly carved, grinning faces with their perfect, straight lines. He runs straight into Auden Hall, through the common area, past students who don’t seem to realize that the world might be ending. He nearly kills himself by slipping on discarded candy bar wrappers. When he finally makes it to his room, he wrenches the door closed and bolts himself safely inside.

Louis stands in the middle of the dark room, his breaths coming in short bursts as though he’s just played twenty minutes on the football pitch. His heart is rabbiting in his chest. He sits on the edge of his bed and rests his head on his knees.

“What have you done?” he asks himself out loud.

As though in an answer to his question, a bit of music from the quad floats in through the open window.

 _Oh, what a night_  
_Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me_  
_She was everything I dreamed she'd be_  
_Sweet surrender, what a night._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrical references from this chapter:**  
>  _[December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liyiT_DGREA)_ by The Four Seasons


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for the lovely comments! It's so nice to know that others are actually enjoying this as much as we are. :) 
> 
> **Couple of things:**  
>  1\. We'll generally update every 2 weeks or so (sometimes more, sometimes less). We like to make sure things are solid before we post, and we both get busy at times with work and such. But we are definitely working diligently to keep things coming!  
> 2\. There's a lyrical reference in this chapter that is technically not in accordance with the timeline (the song was released after when the story takes place). But it fit so perfectly that we decided to leave it in. Just try to suspend your disbelief. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Thirty-eight minutes later (Louis knows exactly how long it’s been because he has been staring at his alarm clock the entire time) the door to the room bangs open. Louis looks up - a Zayn-shaped silhouette stands in the frame.

“Louis.”

Louis grunts.

“What the hell are you doing in here? In the dark?”

Louis sighs. “What is it, Zayn?”

“Harry’s been looking for you. Why are you -”

“Don’t tell him I'm in here," Louis interrupts.

"Why not?"

"Because..."

Zayn flicks the light on, and Louis has been sitting in the dark for so long that he can feel his eyes dilate painfully. He throws his arm across his face.

"Shit! What was that for?"

"So I could look at you! Why are you being so weird?” He pauses. “Did you and Harry have a fight or something?"

Louis lowers his arm but stares at his lap, refusing to look at Zayn.

"Sort of."

Zayn waits, like he's expecting Louis to continue, but Louis stays silent. His throat is still dry and his heart hasn't stopped pounding for what feels like hours. He's in no state for chatting.

"Look, I'm sure whatever it is, you guys will work it out," Zayn says. "He seemed like he really wanted to talk to you. Can't you just-"

"Please, Zayn," Louis says, finally raising his head to meet Zayn's eyes. There's bewilderment written all over his face, and more than a touch of concern in his lovely brown eyes. Stupid sex god.

Zayn shrugs. "Okay. I won't say anything. But I still think you ought to just talk to him. He's Harry, for Chrissakes. Can't even imagine what you'd be fighting about with that kid." He shakes his head.

Louis looks out the darkened window and laughs bitterly. "It's complicated."

"Well-" Zayn cuts off abruptly, though Louis hasn't done anything to interrupt him. When he turns back to look at Zayn, he sees a second person standing in the doorway, staring at him.

A second person with curly hair, vampire fangs, and imploring green eyes.

"Louis," Harry says, "Can I please talk to you?"

Louis flinches. "How'd you even find me here?" He sends Zayn a meaningful glare. Zayn widens his eyes and holds up his hands in a wasn’t-me type of way.

Harry’s eyes, however, narrow slightly. "Er, you live here."

Louis groans and curls his legs to his chest, hiding his face between his knees.

"I'm gonna, just - I'll see you," he hears Zayn say, and then the door clicks shut and he's alone in a room with Harry. A weight sinks down on his mattress. Harry isn't touching him, but Louis knows how close he is in the way that he can feel warmth against the outside of his arm.

"Louis," Harry says quietly, his voice hoarse, and Louis doesn't know how he manages to fit so much weight and emotion behind his name. It's enough to make him raise his head and look directly into Harry's sad, serious eyes.

"I'm sorry," Louis whispers. There’s a hole in his chest and all of his organs have just fallen through it. "I don't know what happened."

Harry studies him for a moment. Louis can see him swallow thickly, like there’s a lump in his throat.

“I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Louis continues. “It won’t happen again.” He can’t bring himself to look at Harry as he says this, so he goes back to boring holes into his kneecaps with his eyes.

“Louis.”

Louis looks up again, and suddenly there are lips crashing into his and curly, chocolate-colored hair obscuring his vision.

It’s quick, and Louis really only gets a second or two to enjoy how soft and warm Harry’s lips are against his before Harry pulls away. He’s got his hands braced around Louis’s biceps and a panicked look in his eyes, like he’s prepared to forcibly hold Louis down if he tries to run again. Louis blinks at him, drags the tips of his fingers along his lower lip, tries to hold on to the ghost of the sensation.

He can’t think - he needs to tell himself to breathe.

“You-” he chokes out. He can feel the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile out of their own volition. Louis never gave his face permission to betray him this way. “You kissed me.”

Harry lets out a slow breath, and he gives Louis a gentle smile in return. “Yeah, well, you kissed me first.”

Louis can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles up his throat and escapes. His muscles have morphed into Jello, and his brain has abandoned him to float around somewhere near the ceiling. The laugh seems to appease Harry, who releases his grip on Louis’s biceps and moves one of his hands to gently rest on Louis’s knee instead.

“Oh, shit,” Harry gasps. The hand that is not currently setting fire to Louis’s knee flies up to his mouth. He slides two fingers into that adorable horse mouth of his and pulls out his vampire fangs, wincing slightly. Another laugh jolts out of Louis’s throat. He’s probably hysterical. He’s probably cracking up. He probably needs to be checked into some sort of facility.

Harry drops the fangs onto the floor in surprise when the dormitory door bangs open again. This time it’s Niall silhouetted in the doorframe, his sheet slightly askew so that the eyes of his costume are distinctly lopsided. Harry and Louis instinctively lean away from each other, the movement almost imperceptible.

“What the fuck are you gents doing in here? Making out? There’s a party on and you’re missing it!”

Niall is gone as quickly as he arrived. The moment has deflated somewhat, the air in the room is now flat and still.

Even though Niall was clearly kidding and couldn't have seen anything, Harry has turned a spectacular shade of crimson.

“Let’s go back,” Louis says, nudging Harry with his elbow. “I want to hunt down some wine gums.”

Harry nods. He grabs Louis’s hand and squeezes it before standing up and leading the way through the door, down the stairs, and out into the sparkling night.

\--

_**November, 1985** _

Liam leans forward and shakes Louis’s shoulder, snapping him out of his daze. Suddenly, he realizes that he’s been staring, unfocused, out of the window for the past half hour. He also realizes that Professor Holbrook is waiting for Louis to answer a question that he didn’t hear.

“Uhm, sorry?” Louis picks up his head, which had been propped up on his hand.

“Excuse me for interrupting what must have been a sublime daydream,” Holbrook says in mock indignation. The rest of the class titters. “I was asking about your thoughts on social expectations in _Middlemarch_ , but if you’d rather continue planning what you are going to eat for dinner, be my guest.”

Louis had not, in fact, been thinking about dinner. He’d been thinking about Harry. He’d been thinking about how everything had changed at Halloween and, yet, everything is actually the same. His life has gone all wonky. All he can think about is how much he wants to kiss Harry again, and about how that particular fantasy is...wrong. Dirty, even.

But then, he’s still getting into trouble for letting his mind wander during class, so, same old shit, really.

He stammers out a quick response and then pretends to take notes for the rest of the lecture. He’s really doodling sketches of pirate ships. He can feel Liam’s judgement radiating from the desk behind his, but he can’t bring himself to care.

When class ends, Louis hurriedly shovels his things into his bag and makes to follow Liam out the door. But as he passes Holbrook’s desk, Holbrook says, "Mr. Tomlinson, may I have a word?"

Louis steels himself for a reprimand, and while a scolding from a teacher used to be fairly routine for him, he feels nerves and self-loathing mingling in his stomach. Even when he tries to be better, he can't quite manage to be good enough.

Holbrook waits until the other students have cleared the room - even Liam, who had seemed torn between waiting for Louis so they could walk together as usual and leaving him behind so as to maintain his reputation for punctuality. Eventually, it seemed, he’d decided that tardiness to his next class was not a sacrifice he was willing to make.

"Professor Ardmore tells me you've agreed to be on the Student Committee for the big fundraiser," Holbrook says. Which was not even close to what Louis had been anticipating.

"Er." It’s taking his mind a moment to catch up. Louis remembers most of the party - he wasn't so far under the spell of Zayn's whiskey - but everything that doesn't involve the area on and around Harry's lips is fuzzy. Then he remembers - the punch table. The volunteering. The wanting to impress...someone.

"Yeah," Louis says. "I did."

Holbrook fiddles with his mustache for a second. "I know of your past records, Louis, and I just want to say that I think it's very wise and admirable of you to be getting involved. Especially with such a great cause."

Apparently he is not in for a lecture. Apparently he’s doing better than he thought.

"The government is especially concerned about AIDS right now, as you'll know. If we can raise a significant amount of money, it will likely mean greater recognition for Westland in other areas." Holbrook is smiling at Louis, whose muscles have gone rigid.

"Sorry?" Louis wills his voice to stay calm. He tries to keep his gaze neutral, tries to harness the dread slowly filling him and keep it hidden.

Holbrook squints at him. "The fundraiser. For AIDS research."

"Right. Yeah." Louis scratches the skin behind his ear. He digs his nails in, and the scraping pain he creates there keeps him grounded. "Thanks. For the, um. Chat. But I -"

Louis gestures toward the door, his gaze flicking awkwardly to the ugly brown linoleum below his feet.

"Of course," Holbrook says. He’s still studying Louis with narrowed eyes, but then he smiles kindly. "Don't be late for your next class." He waves Louis out the door, and Louis stutters a "bye" and another "thanks" before he makes it through the door and around the corner, and then he takes off running. He rounds another corner in the deserted hallway, bursts through one of the side doors of the building, and finds himself standing in the drizzly afternoon.

He somehow makes it to his maths classroom with a few seconds to spare. This time, for perhaps the first time in a while (or, erm, his life), he makes a concerted effort to pay attention for the duration of the lesson. He needs to think about something, anything else.

As it turns out, working out differential equations for an hour can serve as quite a distraction.

When the final bell rings, Louis slings his bag over his shoulder and walks outside. It is raining harder than before, big fat drops of water pelting his face. Students are dashing about, huddled under sensible black umbrellas, hopping carefully over puddles to avoid soaking the bottoms of their uniform trousers. Louis trudges ahead without noticing much.

By the time he reaches his dormitory room, he is literally dripping. Zayn isn’t there. He must have already gone down to football practice. As Louis knows by now, a torrential downpour like this is not going to put a stop to football.

As Louis grabs his kit for practice, a few thoughts come unbidden into his mind and he can’t push them away. It’s like he’s got a song stuck in his brain, a song that he only knows the chorus to, and he keeps thinking those lines over and over again, hoping that doing so will make him remember the rest of the lyrics. He’s thinking of the ad he saw while watching telly with Niall, the one with the grim reaper and AIDS in bold lettering and the newscaster talking about homosexuals with the disease as “authors of their own misfortune”. He thinks of Harry’s lips and Harry’s hair and Harry’s fucking dimples. He’s remembering his sister tearfully asking his mum one day after school if she could get AIDS from her schoolteacher, who was generally acknowledged to be a “poof”.

Harry’s lips Harry’s hair. Harry’s dimples.

“I’m not gay.” Louis says aloud in an attempt to quiet the images whirling in his mind. The words sound strange in the empty room.

Zayn’s poster of Morrissey smirks at Louis. Like he knows Louis is a liar.

 _Initiate me_.

 _So if there's something you'd like to try_  
_If there's something you'd like to try_  
_Ask me - I won't say no_  
_How could I?_

\--

"England is the fucking greatest," Zayn shouts to Louis from the sidelines, sarcasm lacing his voice. Louis smirks, shaking water out of his eyes.

They've been on the pitch for no more than ten minutes and they're soaked. Louis squints, able to make out a figure several yards away that seems to be generally Harry-shaped, and he gives the ball a solid whack in the figure's general direction with the inside of his foot. The ball sails off into the downpour, spinning on the wet grass. The figure has to chase after it.

Liam's shrill whistle pierces the air, cutting through the rain and wind. Louis sighs, feeling the warm air leave his lungs but not able to hear it because the wind whips the sound away so quickly. He jogs to the sidelines where the rest of the team is gathering, and where Liam is pacing.

"Lou," Liam says, scowling, when Louis reaches the cluster, "What was that?"

Louis frowns. "The pass?"

"Is that what you'd call it?" Rodgers's voice from just behind Louis is low enough that Liam can't hear it. Louis's stomach lurches, but he ignores it.

"Sorry," Louis shrugs, staring resolutely at Liam. "I couldn't really see."

"Ah yes, rain," Rodgers carries on over Louis's left shoulder. "Remarkable substance. Falls from the sky and makes everything invisible, don't it?"

Louis grits his teeth. He shivers. Zayn is watching him strangely, and Liam is squinting at the pitch.

"I know conditions aren't ideal," Liam says to the team, shouting over the rainstorm, "but we need to be able to play well in this. If this were the weather on game day, we'd still be expected to play." He pauses, then adds, "And win."

As the team jogs back into position, Louis sees Harry’s foot slip on the wet grass and he goes down in a tumble of long limbs. Before he has time to think or make a decision, Louis’s legs are carrying him towards Harry as quickly as they can manage.

“Are you all right?” Louis asks. His concern fades when he sees that Harry is laughing. Louis holds out both hands, which Harry accepts, still giggling like a schoolkid. Louis pulls him to his feet.

For the briefest of seconds, their eyes lock. Harry’s hair is dripping down his forehead, spilling over those kind, bottle green eyes. His dimples are so deep that Louis wonders if the rainwater might collect there. There’s a burning sensation in the pit of Louis’s stomach that warms him for a moment.

Louis and Harry break apart when Rodgers wedges between them, sending them each a step backward. It’s under the pretense of getting to his spot on the field directly. But the painful collision of Rodgers and Louis’s shoulders was intentional.

And so is the fire of loathing burning behind Rodgers’s eyes as he turns to glare at them.

Louis gives Harry a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before he continues to his place in the center of the pitch. There’s a sense of foreboding filling his stomach now, replacing the warmth Harry had put there. Louis shivers again, and this time it’s not just from the cold that is seeping into his bones.

 _He knows_ , Louis thinks wildly with each step as he runs upfield. _He fucking knows that I….that I…_ He shakes his head to clear it, to get rid of the frustrated scream that is currently bubbling in his throat. Because his hands are still shaking simply for the fact that Harry touched them.

The football in play, kicked by Niall, goes sailing past Louis. It’s gone before he registers he was supposed to do something with that pass.

As Niall let’s out a string of what is probably heavily-accented curse words, Liam’s whistle blows again.

“I know, I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” Louis says to Liam when he reaches the sidelines.

“You’re not the only one,” Liam replies, his face all frown lines. “C’mon lads. Get the cones, we’re gonna do the speed dribbling drill we started last week.”

Everyone groans. Rodgers angrily drop kicks the football in his hands clear across the field.

“And we’ll be running suicides after for your cheek!” Liam yells.

As they’re setting up the line of cones, Zayn pushes his dark fringe out of his long lashes and mutters, “I’m gonna kill him” to no one in particular.

It rains for the rest of practice. Louis is thankful they are focused on individual drills because he doesn’t have to look at Harry or Rodgers. Instead, he tries to run off the the feeling that something is amiss, tries to feel normal. Like, here they are, at practice, thinking about ways to torture Liam for the pain he’s inflicting on them as they sprint up and down the pitch.

Louis is definitely focused on improving his speed in the middle of a flooded, muddy field and he definitely isn’t trying to convince himself that Rodgers is just a scumbag with bad timing.

Liam only blows the whistle to end practice because the sun has set twelve minutes ago and it’s officially too dark to see. As the team is piling footballs into the mesh bag near the goal, Rodgers slams into Louis’s shoulder again. Louis turns to say something, his face instantly red and his mind filled with insults he could use, but he’s cut off by Zayn.

“Let’s have some pints, yeah?” Zayn says, squeezing Louis's shoulder. He doesn't appear to notice that Rodgers is acting more hostile toward Louis than usual.

So Louis nods, wondering how many pints it will take to get rid of the sense of unease curdling in his stomach.

\--

Bonfire Night celebrations aren’t entirely Liam’s doing - apparently Westland always honors Guy Fawkes's failure in style. But Liam definitely had a hand in the preparations, which means that Louis has found himself on November 5th in a room full of tiny first year students working on the Guy they are going to burn later this evening.

Louis doesn’t know exactly how this arrangement came to be, nor does he fully understand how he keeps finding himself involved in school activities. Last night, he helped his friends make Parkin in the kitchens instead of participating in Mischief Night, which, until he’d left Doncaster for school, had been his favorite holiday. He’d always felt so free and young and alive mucking about with his mates, wearing all black, carrying torches (which they would use to tell scary ghost stories in Louis’s back garden later) and cartons of eggs. There were few things more satisfying than hearing an egg splatter against the side of a house - especially if that house belonged to crotchety old Mrs. Harrison.

If Past Louis could see Present Louis helping a younger student to put a shirt onto a straw Guy for the effigy, he’d have pissed his trousers.

What is wrong with him?

“Everything okay in here?” Liam says as he walks into the classroom.

“Yeah, Liam, look!” One of the younger students says excitedly, showing Liam the completed Guy. The other boys are watching Liam like he’s the goddamn sun in the sky. When Liam is suitably impressed with their work, they glow with pride.

“Excellent, I think we’re all ready.”

Louis stands back as Liam leads the boys out of the classroom, down the empty hallway and out onto the north lawn, a sweeping stretch of grass that slopes down toward the village. This is where most of the teachers are setting up for the bonfire. There’s a large pit of broken wooden crates and logs, with gallons of lighter fluid nearby.

His palms are itching with possibility.

But, no, he really mustn’t. Even though Rodgers _was_ a right tosser at practice…

The teachers have also set up some food stations - long tables laden with foil for wrapping potatoes in and cooking in the fire, toffee apples, bangers on sticks. Louis surveys it all from the edge of the pit, watching, too, as Liam helps the first year boys set the straw effigy they made in the center of it.

“Bit sick, innit?” A voice says from right next to Louis, who jumps, startled.

“Jesus, man,” Louis says.

Niall shrugs and takes a massive bite of toffee apple. “Don’t you think, though? Burning a straw, model man in the middle of campus? In memory of something that happened several centuries ago? You English are bizarre.”

“Sure,” Louis says, grinning. “But it’s fun.”

As soon as the sun sets and all of the students are gathered on the lawn, the headmaster douses the pit and its contents in lighter fluid and then, carefully, sets it ablaze. Louis stands with Niall and Zayn, wondering where Harry is and wishing that he didn’t care. He notices, though, that Zayn’s eyes never seem to leave Liam, who is hurrying about doing Head Boy things.

Zayn, Louis, and Niall pick out a spot near the fire as the night is growing cold.

Louis perches on a log after grabbing a tartan blanket not unlike the uniforms at St. Barbara’s from one of the tables. He drapes it across his lap. He’s just starting to settle in when Zayn gives him a significant, conspiratorial look and then nods his head toward some bushes at the edge of the lawn.

Louis shakes his head. He’s comfortable where he is and, besides, Harry won’t be able to find him if he’s hiding in the bushes, passing Zayn’s flask around.

Not that he cares.

“Okay, see you in a bit,” Zayn says and Niall winks and the two of them take off into the darkness.

Louis stares at the fire for what is probably only several minutes but what feels like hours, the shapes of the flames somewhat hypnotizing. He is just beginning to think that he get up and try to find Zayn and Niall when Harry ambles over. He’s got a wild, excited grin on his face and a styrofoam cup in each hand, and his green eyes are glinting wickedly in the firelight.

“Hi,” he says, and he hands Louis one of the cups. It’s warm and steaming - the sweet smell of hot chocolate reaches his nose as Harry passes it to him.

Louis accepts the cup and takes a sip, unable to stop the smile that is dancing around the corners of his mouth. “Hi, yourself,” he says. “And thank you.”

Harry sits down on the log and presses against Louis’s side as he tucks himself under the blanket.

Harry is entirely very close to him.

And now Louis is sitting with his shoulder pressed against Harry’s shoulder, and his upper arm pressing against Harry’s upper arm, and his thigh flush with Harry’s thigh under the blanket. And Louis could’ve moved over to give Harry more space, but he didn’t, and now it’s too late - it’s been too long. And he’s warm everywhere, even in his bones, but he hasn’t even had a drop of Zayn’s whiskey.

There are other students clustered around the fire, but none of them are paying Harry and Louis any attention. A couple of boys are playing a card game opposite them. Several more are roasting food closer to the fire. Zayn and Niall are still nowhere to be found.

Louis thinks again about going to find them, but he doesn’t want to move. The pressure against his side is so frighteningly comfortable that it makes his brain hazy and his fingers begin to twitch where they rest on his knee.

A burst of blue sparks from several yards away catches his eye, and he can’t help the smirk that creeps across his face. He nudges Harry and nods towards a group of slightly younger boys, who are fumbling with a box of fireworks. The teacher supervising them is wearing an expression of utmost anxiety.

Louis knows his way around a firework - he got them into Posh Nicker’s trousers, after all, without leaving so much as a scratch on him before he hit the water - but something tells him it would be unwise to go over and start offering advice on how to handle minor explosives.

The fire crackles before them as Harry laughs quietly at one of the boys, who has somehow managed to attract the attention of every faculty member within a mile while he tries valiantly to light a Roman Candle. Several teachers are sprinting towards the boy from various parts of the lawn - the Latin professor even drops the box of glow sticks he had been carrying and it hits the dirt with a crash, glow sticks flying out of it and then rolling away across the ground.

Louis’s eyes follow the path of a bright green one - it rolls between two trees of a nearby thicket and disappears into the shadows. He stares at the dark space for a moment and then he turns his gaze back to Harry, who, apparently, is watching him. Harry’s eyes are full of glittering light from the fire, and Louis doesn’t know how long Harry has been looking at him, but he knows that his brain is suddenly buzzing and his mouth is dry.

“Come on,” says Louis, standing up abruptly and letting the blanket fall at his feet. He sets his nearly-empty cup of hot chocolate on the ground. Harry raises his eyebrows, and then he stands and places his own cup on the log.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“You’ll see,” Louis says. He starts walking towards the trees, towards the dark space where the green glow stick disappeared. He doesn’t look back - he simply trusts that Harry will follow him.

Harry does.

Louis doesn’t stop when he sees the glow stick, which is resting against a twisted root - he winds a bit deeper into the thick cluster of trees, until he can just barely see the light from the fire peeking through the trunks. And then he turns and Harry is right there, the warmth of him seeping into Louis’s chest even though they aren’t touching.

Harry takes a step closer and reaches out, his fingertips just barely brushing the skin on the inside of Louis’s wrist. Louis’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“This is where we’re going?” Harry asks, his voice low and quiet. Louis can just barely see him, thanks to the moonlight and the firelight that filter through the trees. He sees the outline of Harry’s curls, and the sharp edge of his jaw, and the shadows that flit across his cheekbones when he blinks.

Louis swallows hard. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Harry says, reaching out to touch Louis’s wrist again. He gently traces the bone that protrudes from the side, and then he wraps his hand around Louis’s wrist and tugs him forward. Louis crashes into Harry’s chest, and Harry wraps his arms around him. His strong, warm hands cradle Louis where his spine dips.

Louis looks up slightly and tries to make out Harry’s face. It’s mostly in shadow, thought, and he’s so close that Louis doesn’t know if he could see more than blurriness even in bright sunlight. He can feel Harry’s breaths on his face. His heart is galloping in his chest, every nerve he has tingling.

“I think it’s a nice place,” Harry whispers, his breath ghosting over Louis’s lips. “I’m glad you brought me.”

When Harry presses his lips against Louis’s, he feels a spark zip down his spine and radiate out through his bones. Every agitated feeling that had taken up the space in his stomach rushes out of him at once. He feels as though he’s melting into the pressure of Harry’s lips, disappearing into the sensation of _Harry Harry Harry_ all around him, keeping him safe and comfortable.

Louis’s eyes slide closed as he begins to kiss Harry back earnestly - he lifts his arms and wraps them around Harry’s shoulders, his fingers cautiously stroking at the slightly sweaty skin at the back of Harry’s neck. Harry shivers and pulls Louis closer, and now their torsos are completely flush and Louis wonders if he could press close enough to open Harry up and melt inside of him.

As their lips move rhythmically against each other, Louis thinking about nothing but the feeling of Harry’s fingers drawing gentle circles on his lower back, the crackle of another firework reaches his ears from what seems like very far away. He can see the flash of light, even with closed eyes. Harry pulls back gently and rests his forehead against Louis’s. His fingers don’t stop tracing patterns over Louis’s shirt. Louis breathes deeply, and a clean, slightly musky scent fills his nostrils. A tinge of bar soap, a tinge of sweat, and the crisp, cool air.

“Okay?” Harry whispers. Louis dips one of his fingers below the collar of Harry’s shirt in the back, feels the smooth skin that hides there.

“Yes,” Louis whispers back, and before he can think Harry’s lips are on his again.

Harry teases a few fingers under the hem of Louis’s shirt, touches his bare skin above his waistband. Louis feels boneless - every muscle he has has liquefied, and he briefly considers how convenient it is that Harry is there to hold him up, because he isn’t sure he could do it on his own. Harry’s mouth opens against his, and Louis follows him automatically, allowing his jaw to open and his lips to meld with Harry’s and when Harry’s tongue swipes gently against his, the spark zips down his spine again, even brighter and hotter than before.

The rest of the world falls completely away and Louis lets his tongue tangle with Harry’s over and over, like he’s telling Harry all of his secrets without saying any words. Harry’s fingers trail up his spine under his shirt, each press of his fingertips against Louis’s skin causing a new spark to crack somewhere in his brain.

The sound of leaves crunching nearby makes its way through his haze of a mind and he pulls back suddenly, his mouth separating from Harry’s with a slight smacking sound. A squirrel darts out between the trees and scurries up a nearby trunk. Louis can see its bushy tail in the moonlight.

Harry chuckles, and Louis smiles, running a thumb across Harry’s slick lower lip. “We should go back,” he says and only part of him means it.

Still, Harry nods. He loosens his grip on Louis’s waist, but he leans in and presses another kiss to Louis’s lips. Louis lets his eyelids flutter shut before Harry drops his hands from Louis’s waist and lets them fall to his sides.

Louis takes Harry’s hand, despite the pounding of his heart, as they walk back through the trees, and it isn’t until they reach the green glow stick just beyond the bonfire that he finally lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrical references in this chapter:**  
> [ _Ask_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyaSQLlS5e8) by the Smiths


	7. Chapter 7

_**November, 1985** _

Liam is staring at the projection screen as though he is memorizing every detail, and all Louis wants to do is smack his head off his desk. The only thing stopping him is the fact that he’s keen to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

Professor Ardmore has a calendar for the month of December on a transparency. Louis watches mournfully as he eliminates most of Louis’s remaining free time with his red felt-tip pen.

He feels the energy draining from his bones just looking at it.

Liam takes in a sharp breath from Louis’s left. Louis tears his eyes from the gigantic calendar in front of him to frown at Liam, who now has one arm thrust into the air. He is raising his hand as high as he can without actually leaving his seat, stretching in a way that looks almost painful. Louis smirks at the thought of Liam having superpowers that cause him to levitate every time he desperately wants to say something.

“Yes?” Professor Ardmore asks, gesturing half-heartedly at Liam with his uncapped felt tip pen.

“Sir,” Liam says, “You’ve marked off Thursday evenings, but the football team normally practices then. And that second Saturday in December, we’ve got an away match. It’s the last one before holiday break.”

Ardmore frowns at the projection screen for a moment, and then at Liam. “You and I will have to work something out, then, Mr. Payne,” he says. “Although I should think that you, as Head Boy, would be interested in prioritizing this event, as it is in Westland’s utmost interests to raise as many funds as possible.”

Liam shrinks in his seat. Louis feels his throat constrict. He starts chewing on the tips of his fingernails.

“Now,” Ardmore continues, clapping his hands together. He switches off the overhead projector and rolls up the screen to reveal a chalkboard covered the phrases: “AIDS education,” “risk factors,” and “fundraising ideas.” Louis attempts to make himself shorter than Liam, slouching even more in his wooden chair and letting his knees slide forward under the desk.

“I trust you all understand the severity of this epidemic,” Ardmore says, chalk in hand. “Experts project that, if the spread of HIV and AIDS continues at its current rate, the death toll worldwide will rise to one million people within the next five years.”

The classroom is silent, save for the smooth glide of Ardmore’s chalk against the blackboard and the light taps each time he starts a new letter. Underneath “AIDS education,” there is now a bullet point that reads, “1 million deaths within the next 5 years” in Ardmore’s loopy handwriting.

“What else do we know about AIDS right now?” Ardmore asks. “I want to be sure we are all on the same page before we begin our fundraising plans.”

A younger boy just in front of Louis raises his hand, and Ardmore nods at him. “It’s a disease of the immune system, and it kills you,” he says. Ardmore adds the bullet point.

“Let’s not bother with hand-raising,” he says as he chalks the words. Louis’s head starts to pound. “Just shout things out as you think of them.”

“It’s spread through, erm, sex?” A boy who looks to be a first-year meekly speaks up from the first row. The boys around him titter quietly. Ardmore simply nods and adds the words to the list.

“It can also be spread through blood transfusions,” Liam offers from beside Louis. Louis isn’t sure if he can shrink any lower in his seat without falling off his chair.

“Correct,” Ardmore says. “There is evidence to suggest that any bodily fluid can transmit the disease.”

The boy in front of Louis speaks up again. “My gran says you shouldn’t give strangers mouth-to-mouth. In case they have it.”

Ardmore draws an arrow to the empty margins of the board and notes the boy’s comment.

A red-haired kid who looks to be close to Louis’s year clears his throat from across the aisle. “It’s mostly...gay people,” he says. “They’re the ones that have it. And they’re the ones spreading it.”

Ardmore nods solemnly, and adds a bullet point to the list that simply says “homosexuals.” Louis bites down on one of his fingernails so hard that he draws blood from his cuticle. He swears quietly and tucks the finger into his other palm.

He can see Liam glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I’d like to show you something _The Times_ printed last November,” Ardmore says, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and yanking the projection screen back down. He moves back to the overhead and lays another transparency down. When he flips the switch, a newspaper quote is blown up on the wall in front of them, the letters huge and sharp and black.

 

> "AIDS horrifies not only because of the prognosis for its victims. The infection’s origins and means of propagation excites repugnance, moral and physical, at promiscuous male homosexuality – conduct which, tolerable in private circumstances, has with the advent of ‘gay liberation’ become advertised, even glorified as acceptable public conduct, even a proud badge for public men to wear.”

Louis’s head is swimming.

“So,” Professor Ardmore says. “Now that we know what we’re working with, let’s start brainstorming fundraising ideas…”

The other students toss around ideas for raising money while Louis tries his very best to become invisible. He attempts to watch Ardmore as he writes down the shouted suggestions, but his eyes keep wandering over to one word on the board in particular. Homosexual. _Homosexual_.

It sends a shiver down his spine each time he looks at it. He loosens his stupid uniform tie with shaky hands. “Promiscuous male homosexuality”. Surely, making out with a boy in a clump of trees counts as “promiscuous male homosexuality”.

Surely, Louis might have AIDS now.

 _Well. No. That would be ridiculous. Right?_ He couldn’t get AIDS just from _kissing_ , could he? _That boy’s gran is probably wrong about mouth-to-mouth. Probably. Does saliva count as a bodily fluid? Probably. But then, Harry doesn’t have AIDS. So. There’s that._

In the end, they decide on hosting a big dinner in February for the students of Westland as well as Holy Trinity and all of the students’ families. At the dinner, they’ll have an auction as well as a bake sale. Louis just nods along whenever Liam says something because he most likely agrees with it but he isn’t actually paying any attention.

He practically sprints from the classroom when the meeting is over. He needs to take a shower or something - he needs to wash this meeting away.

Liam catches up with Louis at the end of the hallway of the classroom building.

“Wonder what’s for dinner,” Louis says as he pulls on his navy uniform coat. He fiddles longer than usual with the toggles because his hands are still shaking. He is walking erratically, as well, like his brain and legs can’t communicate.

If Liam notices that Louis is behaving strangely, he doesn’t say anything.

“I think stew, maybe?” Liam carefully wraps a long scarf around his neck. His brow is furrowed. “Professor Ardmore didn’t seem to care about how much this fundraiser is going to conflict with football, did he?”

“Mmm,” Louis replies.

“I mean, he said we’d talk about it later, but he didn’t exactly stick around after the meeting,” Liam goes on to list all sorts of reasons that football is as important as AIDS awareness and research. Louis nods along again, making agreeing noises every so often to appease Liam.

When they make it to their usual table in the canteen, Harry and Niall are already there. Louis’s stomach does a somersault when Harry waves to them. _Homosexual_. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so hungry.

“Oh, I just realized - I left something,” says Louis. “Be back in a moment.”

Before Liam can respond, Louis has made it back through the arched doorway. The strap of his bag feels tight across his chest, like it’s trying to crush him. The sound of his own pulse swims in his ears, but he can’t think of anything except _Harry Harry Harry_.

He curses himself out loud as he walks quickly across the grounds without a set destination in mind. A couple of small first-year boys hear him and stare as he passes them on the sidewalk, their eyes wide. He ignores them. He’s walking without thinking, his feet carrying somewhere that his mind isn’t following. Words like “repugnance” and “liberation” turn his thoughts to a weird mantra.

When he looks up, he realizes his feet have carried him to the clump of trees near last weekend’s fire pit, which is now just a circle of ashes in the middle of the lawn. He stares at the clump of trees on the lawn and feels ill. He briefly wonders if the green glow stick is still there, and whether its light has gone out yet.

It probably has. They never last very long, do they?

Louis swallows thickly and turns away, the strap of his bag cutting an even deeper groove into his shoulder.

\--

Louis is freshly showered and staring blankly at the textbook lying open on his lap when the door to the room swings open. He’s seated on the rug, back against his bed, legs stretched out in front of him.

Zayn strolls in, followed closely by Liam, who is wearing a frown that cuts wrinkles between his eyebrows.

“Even Louis is helping!” Liam says.

Zayn glances at Louis, who shrugs noncommittally and pretends to return to his reading.

“Okay?” Zayn replies.

“Even _Loui_ s,” Liam repeats.

“Oi,” Louis mutters, though there’s no heat behind it. He reaches up and runs a careless hand through some of the fringe that has fallen across his forehead and into his eyeline.

“Liam, it’s not as though I’ve never helped with anything. I spent six hours carving bloody pumpkins not even a month ago.” Zayn argues as he flops onto his bed, his bag falling to the floor near Louis’s feet. It folds over into a slouch.

“Yes, but - this is the big one!” Liam continues, seating himself on Louis’s bed. “This is the one that matters! You should…”

“Liam.” Zayn’s voice is sharp. He props himself up on his elbows to glare at Liam. Louis feels as though someone has poured cold water down the back of his neck - Zayn never speaks to people like this. He gets annoyed, sometimes exasperated, but he is never anything other than gentle.

Especially with Liam.

“I really, really don’t want to help with the stupid AIDS fundraiser. Okay? Now drop it.” Zayn hides his face in his pillows. Louis chews on his fingernails and looks back at Liam, whose face resembles someone who has recently been punched - eyes glassy with shock, mouth slightly agape.

“Okay,” Liam says quietly. And then he pushes himself off the bed, crosses the room, and closes the door loudly behind him.

Louis opens his mouth to say something to Zayn, but his mind goes blank. So he snaps his jaw shut and goes back to pretending to study.

\--

“Honestly, you spent a good ten minutes going on about how football is just as important as this bloody fundraiser,” Louis says slowly. “So, it’s not like it’s your absolute top priority, either.”

Liam scowls sideways.

Louis adjusts his schoolbag, which has been bouncing awkwardly off of his knees as he walks down the hallway. “And Zayn, you know, he’s got his painting final to think about, and, er, general mysteriousness to maintain.”

Liam opens his mouth to retort, but Louis suddenly remembers that he wanted to ask Professor Holbrook for clarification on his latest essay assignment.

“I’ll catch you up later, Lima Bean.” He may or may not have intentionally used Zayn’s favorite (and Liam’s least favorite) nickname.

Liam glowers after Louis as Louis bounds back down the hallway toward the Literature classroom. Professor Holbrook is sitting at his desk, alone, when Louis arrives. He looks up when Louis knocks on the doorframe.

“Ah, Mr. Tomlinson,” Holbrook’s bushy eyebrows rise marginally. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I had a question about the essay prompt,” Louis says. He steps into the classroom.

“Pull up a chair,” Holbrook says, gesturing to the opposite side of his desk. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

As if on cue, the electric kettle on Holbrook’s untidy desk whistles shrilly.

“Oh, er, sure,” Louis replies. He sits down on the edge of the chair he pulled up. Holbrook extracts two teacups and two teabags seemingly from nowhere. As Holbrook busies himself with making the tea, Louis asks whether he needs to compare the two Shakespeare plays they read in class, or focus on one in particular.

“Hmm,” Holbrook hands Louis a cup of steaming Yorkshire tea. “I had meant for you to focus on one. But I think there’s space for you to discuss both, if you so choose.” He smiles. “I’m actually rather interested in your thoughts on each of them.”

Louis shakes his head before taking a sip of scalding tea. “You might be overestimating my thoughts, sir.”

Holbrook laughs. He muses for a moment, then asks, “The football team is playing tomorrow, yes?” Louis nods. “Well, good luck to you. I have to say, the team has been playing much better this year. It used to be quite rubbish. Then again, I don’t suppose you would know about any of that, as this is your first year at Westland?” Louis nods again.

They start talking about their respective football teams. Louis supports Doncaster, and Holbrook’s allegiance lies with Swindon so they have a good-natured, ten minute fight about which is superior. Louis is pleasantly surprised when Holbrook lets out a few expletives when discussing Doncaster’s supposed lack of talent.

By the time Louis leaves, his teacup finally empty, he’s feeling lighter. It’s nice to be reminded that he is capable of having normal conversations with people (instructors, even!) without being interrupted with uncivilized thoughts concerning a certain someone with chocolate curls and legs for days.

He’s just at the door to the classroom when Holbrook says, “Make sure you win tomorrow, Tomlinson. The headmaster is always in a better mood when the football team is doing well. And he’s much better dinner company when he’s happy.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Louis replies. He smiles for the first time in ages. He almost expects his face to crack in half with this change of pace.

\--

Zayn is smoking out of the dormitory window when Louis wakes up on Saturday morning.

“Time is it?” Louis mumbles into his pillow.

“Five after seven,” Zayn replies.

Louis’s tired eyes focus on Zayn’s packed bag. He bolts upright. “You prat, we were supposed to be down at the bus five minutes ago!”

Zayn lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. Louis throws back his duvet and hurriedly pulls his tattered bag from under his bed. He shoves his own kit into the bag unceremoniously. _Boots. Jersey. Shorts_. His energy wanes fairly quickly, though, and they end up leaving the room at twenty after.

Louis _had_ stepped out the second he was done packing, but he had had to turn back because he’d left wearing only his pants. This slowed them down momentarily.

Zayn is supremely unconcerned.

“You’re thirty minutes late, boys,” the team manager - Westland’s young biology teacher - says as they walk up to the meeting place outside of Nott Hall. “Next time, we’re leaving without you.”

“Sorry,” Louis mutters. Zayn tosses his latest cigarette to the ground and steps on it before boarding the bus.

Louis is relieved to find that Harry is sitting with Niall as usual. He wouldn’t have known what to do - sit with him, not sit with him, sit with him. Without meaning to, he notices that Harry looks cozy, wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the Westland crest emblazoned on the front. He has the hood pulled up over his head, and Louis kind of wants to grab him by the strings and snog his lovely lips off of his lovely face.

He pushes that thought from his mind to make mental space for Niall’s red tracksuit, which is making a spectacular reappearance.

Niall waves at Louis energetically. He is halfway through a bag of crisps and covered in crumbs. Harry smiles up at Louis shyly. Louis nods to them in return.

Zayn takes his customary place next to Liam. They are both sitting as far away from the other as possible without actually leaving the seat, but at least they’re together, so Louis is hopeful they’re done fighting.

Louis slides into the only unoccupied spot, which is two behind Liam and Zayn. He puts his head against the window, looking out at the gathering gray clouds. His stomach squirms when he hears Harry laugh at something Niall said.

It’s going to be a long three hours to Shrewsbury, Louis thinks.

Except it goes by rather quickly. Because he fell asleep before the bus was off of Westland’s campus. He startles awake when Niall says “Up an’ at ‘em, Tommo,” with his face inches from Louis’s.

By the time the team gathers, in full kit, at the edge of field before the match, the gathering gray clouds have turned into a rainstorm. Louis can see a grim “I-told-you-so” lurking behind Liam’s determined face. He doesn’t say it out loud, though. He just puts his hand in the middle of the circle of players.

“Everyday above ground is a good day,” he shouts over the deluge.

“The world is yours!” The team shouts back.

“Think you’ll be able to stay on your feet this time, Styles?” Rodgers calls to Harry as they take their places on the field.

Instead of replying to Rodgers, Harry glances over at Louis, his eyes wide.

“Ignore him,” Louis says firmly, though he is strongly considering kicking Rodgers hard in the shins.

It’s a muddy game, but a fun one. Shrewsbury’s team isn’t very good in the rain. The players are slower, more cautious. Apparently, their captain is less insane than Liam and doesn’t believe that all-weather conditioning in apocalyptic situations is necessary.

Westland wins 2-0. Harry scores both of the goals, assisted both times by Louis. Even though Louis isn’t sure what they’re doing and even though he can’t understand why he wants to snog Harry so badly every time he scores, they still work well together.

At the end of the game, Liam calls his team over to the sidelines. As Rodgers is jogging along the edge of the pitch behind a goal, he slips. In trying to catch his balance, he topples over into a shallow ravine that runs around the short side of the field. He emerges after a few moments, covered head-to-toe in mud. Not even the flood crashing down is enough to wash the mess away.

Louis doesn’t think he will ever stop laughing. He and Niall are doubled over, hanging onto Zayn for support. Niall might even be crying, he’s laughing so hard. It’s difficult to tell in the rain, though. Rodgers looks so ridiculous, like a scowling alien creature from Doctor Who.

“Get off me,” Zayn says to Louis and Niall, but he doesn’t move away.

“Let’s hit the showers, lads,” Liam yells.

Rodgers angrily wipes some mud off of his forehead and sort of flings it in Louis’s direction. Then he stalks off toward Shrewsbury’s guest locker rooms. Louis is still laughing when he hears a rumble of thunder.

Then his breath catches in his throat.

Niall is still laughing, Zayn is still annoyed, and Liam is still trying to herd the rest of the team in the direction of the locker rooms. Harry is the only one to notice that Louis has gone completely rigid with terror.

Lightning flashes in the distance.

“Race you to the showers!” Louis shouts, and then he takes off running as fast as his tired legs will take him. All he can think about is getting out of the storm as quickly as possible without anyone noticing that his heart is beating out of his chest in fear.

At first, he’s worried that no one heard him. But then Harry overtakes him from the left, his long legs a distinct advantage in racing. Harry is going fast and sort of forgets to brake and so he ends up slamming into the door of the building. He pauses to pull it open, giving Louis time to squeeze through the door and into the locker room. He’s the first to make it to the showers, followed shortly by Harry and then Niall and Liam.

Evidently, Zayn is taking his time.

“Victory is mine!” Louis yells, arms held aloft. If he’s loud enough, maybe Harry will stop looking at him with such concern in those green eyes. If he’s loud enough, maybe no one will notice that he wants to throw up each time he hears a crash of thunder.

If Louis had been hoping that the storm would end while the team is showering and changing, he is horribly disappointed. If anything, the weather has deteriorated. The rain is coming down nearly horizontal in the gale, the lightning increasing in frequency.

Louis’s heart is pounding at the base of his throat as they walk from the locker rooms back to the bus. The beat is thrown off-kilter after every rumble of thunder. He has to fight the urge to sprint toward shelter. He’s holding the strap of his kit bag so tightly that his fingernails are leaving a trail of half-moon indentations in his clammy palms. Every time lightning forks across the sky, his digs his nails in deeper.

This time, he’s the first person on the bus. He heads straight for the back, to the last seat on the right. He tips his head against the wall behind him, breathing hard through his nose. Clamping his eyes shut, he tries to focus on the sound of his teammates boarding the bus, their footsteps, their laughter, their talking.

He tries to focus on the movement of the bus as it pulls out of the Shrewsbury car park and onto the motorway. But his heart won’t stop hammering, no matter how hard he clasps his hands together, no matter how hard he tries to think about anything else.

Even thoughts of Harry’s dimples aren’t enough. Which is seriously frustrating, because, really, he could do with that distraction right now. He’s spent an entire week trying to not think about Harry and now, when he would love to be daydreaming about kissing pretty boys with sparkling eyes and soothing, deep voices, all he can think about is stupid fucking thunderstorms and how they make his stomach churn.

“Lou?”

Louis’s eyes snap open. Harry has slid onto the seat next to him.

“Oh, Harry, hello,” Louis says overly brightly with a too-wide grin. His hands are still clenched, painfully tight, in his lap. “Good game, yeah?”

Harry puts one of his massive paws over Louis’s trembling hands, then whispers, “Are you all right?”

There’s a spike of lightning followed quickly by a crash of thunder. Louis gulps and nods, but Harry can see right through him.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, his voice soft and low. “I’ve brought a distraction for you.”

He pulls a bright yellow Walkman out of his bag and hands Louis the headphones. Louis misses the pressure of Harry’s hand on his. “Oh, boy, Styles, this better be The Jackson 5.” He puts on the headphones.

Harry smiles and shakes his head. “It’s a mixtape I borrowed from Nick.”

He presses play and it starts in the middle, nonsense lyrics -

 _Hail (hail), it’s your business if you want some_  
_Take some, get it together, baby_  
_Come and get your love_ ,  
_Come and get your love._

Louis lifts the headphones away from his ears. “Come and Get Your Love?” He laughs a little.

Harry stammers, “Oops, sorry, I didn’t realize it was still in the middle of that one.” He pushes the stop button down.

 _Come and get your love, indeed_ , Louis thinks as Harry blushes endearingly.

Louis shakes his head, trying to clear it. “No, really, I like it,” he says as lets the headphones snap back down, snug on his ears. “You may continue.” He closes his eyes.

Harry presses play.

 _Hail (hail), what’s the matter with your feel right?_  
_Don’t you feel right, baby?_  
_Hail, oh, yeah, get it from the main vine, alright._

He’s glad that they’re in the back of the bus, and he’s glad that Michael Doyle is passed out in the seat next to them so there is no one to see Louis reach over and grab Harry’s free hand, the one that isn’t holding the bright yellow Walkman. He’s grateful, too, that Harry doesn’t say anything when Louis squeezes his hand extra tight during a particularly intense explosion of what seems like never-ending thunder.

With Harry’s hand in his and Harry’s music in his ears, though, Louis feels a little less like he might get sick all over the both of them.

Louis looks over at Harry, who is starting to fall asleep. His head keeps falling forward and then snapping back when he wakes up. Louis wants to offer his shoulder to Harry, but he thinks that might be pushing it. He can let go of Harry’s hand quickly enough if anyone happens to look back, but he isn’t so sure he can pass off letting Harry fall asleep on him as completely, heterosexually normal if someone were to see.

So Louis lets Harry doze off with his neck at an awkward angle. He closes his eyes to it, listening to the mixtape.

 _We were dancing_  
_Dancing in the dark._  
_Sweet romancing,_  
_Something’s gonna start_.

Louis is sweaty now, and it’s not all from nerves about the storm.

 _He looked to me like a shadow_  
_Moving in the night_  
_Then he took a hold of my hand_  
_In the soft moonlight._

Louis glances down at the space between him and Harry, where their hands are still entwined. He can’t hear the thunder outside anymore with Kim Wilde crooning about _soft red lips_ in his ears and Harry’s hand keeping him safe and anchored.

He closes his eyes again and rests his head against the back of the seat. They are safe here, in this dark corner of the bus where no one is watching them. Things feel simpler, even with the periodic lightning flashes that cut paths across the sky, occasionally causing Louis to jump slightly.

Two songs later, right before the tape reaches the end of the A side, the bus goes over a particularly substantial bump, and Harry’s body slides sideways towards Louis, the top of his head landing on Louis’s upper arm, his neck crunched at an aggressively painful-looking angle. Louis can feel Harry’s warm breaths on his rain-damp skin, even through his jumper.

Louis glances around them again and sees that most of the team has fallen asleep - Niall is snoring a few seats in front of them, his face pressed against the foggy window, his legs propped up on the back of the seat in front of him. Before he has the chance to change his mind, he lets go of Harry’s hand and takes him by the shoulders, shifting his sleep-lax body into a more upright position. He settles back into his seat and gently guides Harry’s head to rest on his shoulder.

With the comforting weight of Harry against him, and despite the wet curls tickling the underside of his jaw, the three hour ride back to Westland passes in what feels like twenty minutes.

\--

The bartender gives them a look of exasperated hatred as they surge through the doors of the Stamford Arms in all their loud, wet, muddy glory. Nevertheless, he starts pulling glasses down from a shelf and wiping them, setting them out on the bar in preparation. Niall and a group of other players make their way over.

“C’mon,” Zayn murmurs, tugging on Louis’s sleeve. “There’s a booth open.”

Louis follows Zayn over to the booth, sliding in across from him. He tries to ignore the warmth that bubbles up in his chest when Harry appears moments later and sits down beside him. The pub is slightly chaotic, with the team milling around and the staff frantically trying to prepare for their sudden crowd. A blond girl wearing an apron swings by their table, deposits 4 sets of silverware, and leaves without saying anything.

Louis is studying the chalkboard hanging behind the bar, contemplating whether he’d rather have a burger or perhaps a nice, warm steak pie, when a slightly wet, slightly dirty Liam steps into his vision. He looks sad - vulnerable, even. He’s sort of curled in on himself instead of holding his spine straight.

“Liam!” Louis shouts, making the other three jump. “Sit down, mate, don’t be shy.” He kicks Zayn under the table, who flinches, but doesn’t look at Louis. Instead, he slides in further towards the wall and pats the space next to him.

“Go on,” Zayn says, and after another moment of hesitation, Liam sits down, though he leaves a large enough space on the bench between himself and Zayn that Rodgers and his hulking frame could probably fit there comfortably. Zayn rolls his eyes, but frowns.

Louis kicks Zayn again, this time earning a glare, but he ignores it and turns to Harry. “So, Haz!” he says, much more loudly than he needs to. Harry smirks, but doesn’t comment. “That was some game, eh? Nice work with those goals.”

“Nice work with those assists,” Harry replies quietly. He gives Louis a dimpled smile, and Louis’s heart throws a raucous party.

He relaxes when he hears Zayn and Liam talking quietly across from them, their tones too hushed for Louis to make out actual words.

“Got any fancy plans for the hols?” he asks Harry.

Harry shrugs. “My stepdad has this bungalow in the country, so we’re spending Christmas there instead of at home. It’ll be weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Just, like - I’m away from home all year, so it’d be nice if I could spend my break there, you know?”

Louis nods. “I do.”

“But the bungalow is nice,” Harry continues. “There are cows next door.”

Before Louis can inquire further about Harry’s bovine neighbors, Niall appears at the table carrying a tray laden with Guinness drafts and starts passing them around. Louis accepts his gladly, bringing it to his lips immediately and sucking the thin layer of foam off the top.

“Do you work here or something, Niall?” Zayn asks with a grin. “They’re letting you use their trays now?”

Niall scoffs, taking a large gulp from the last remaining beer and throwing the tray on the table as he slides in next to Liam, which causes Zayn and Liam to have to squish even closer together on the bench. Louis can’t help but smile around the rim of his glass as he takes another sip.

“I’m just friendly with Fred back there, is all,” Niall says, setting his beer down on the table. Despite him only having taken one gulp, it’s almost halfway gone.

“Fred? The bartender?” Liam asks, taking a careful sip of his beer.

Niall nods. “He knew my older brother when they went here. Played in the same band for a while. Fred’s good people.”

They are quiet for a few moments as they drink their beers, and Louis watches Zayn and Liam carefully. There’s still a bit of discomfort between them, but Louis thinks they must be okay when Liam chokes on a particularly large sip of foam and Zayn reacts by clapping him gently between the shoulder blades.

“Did you order any food, Niall?” Harry asks, moving his hand below the table to scratch at some of the pale skin of his thigh that peeks out from under the hem of his shorts. Louis takes a Niall-sized gulp of his beer.

“Chips!” Niall says.

“ _Just_ chips?” Liam sighs.

“‘Course! The Second Great Chip Expedition is upon us, lads! It’s the only way to celebrate a victory.”

Harry grins, but Louis rolls his eyes and nudges him. “Budge over,” he says, “I’m going to get us some actual nourishment to accompany our mountain of chips. What does everyone want?”

Louis stands at the bar a minute later, mentally reciting everyone’s orders to himself so that he doesn’t forget them. As he leans over the bar to try to grab the bartender - Fred’s - attention, he hears Niall’s booming laugh from behind him, and he turns instinctively at the sound to see what he’s missing. What he sees is Liam, Niall, and Zayn with their heads inclined toward each other, laughing so hard at something that their eyes crinkle, and Harry’s head turned completely towards Louis, his wide green eyes staring at the space where Louis’s arse had just been.

As Louis watches him, Harry blinks a few times, and then his eyes flick up to meet Louis’s gaze. His cheeks flush and his mouth drops open slightly, and then he hurriedly turns away, facing his whole upper body in the direction of the other boys.

Blood rushes to Louis’s cheeks. His face burns as he turns back toward the bar. He’d imagined it, of course. There was no way Harry was blatantly checking him out - Louis knows that his thick thighs and round arse aren’t exactly the attractive male standard, has always known that his slightly more feminine shape makes him far from the object of anyone’s sexual fantasies. Surely Harry was just embarrassed by the idea that it might have _looked_ like he was checking Louis out.

Louis stands up straight, locks his shoulders back, and tries to tilt his hips up in a way that will make his rear look smaller. He’s certain he either looks completely natural or totally awkward and forced.

Fred approaches, looking at him a little funny. Awkward, then. “Can I get you something?”

\--

As the five of them make their way back across the grounds, most of the team having filtered out of the pub to pursue other Saturday night adventures, Louis hears the distant rumblings of thunder. He shudders audibly, five beers sloshing in his stomach and making it harder for him to control his reactions.

Liam glances over at him. “Alright, Lou?”

“Oh, er, yeah. Just chilly.”

“Sounds like more storms,” Zayn says. “We should probably just hang out in the room tonight, yeah? Lou and I still have some vodka left.”

Louis grits his teeth. With all five of them in the room, Louis will have to hide his fear of the storm in plain sight. He won’t be free to burrow headfirst into his blankets under the guise of wanting to go to sleep. And he’s drunk, so, all bets are off at how successful he’ll be at playing it cool.

“I’m a bit tired,” Louis says quietly.

Niall groans. “C’mon, Lou, the night is still young. And you two have the best room for drinking, because the only authority figure on your floor is always in there drinking with us.”

Liam coughs, and Louis can see his face reddening even in the darkness.

“Not that I’m complaining, of course,” Niall amends.

“Well,” Harry says from somewhere behind Louis, his words slurred, “Actually, Lou, if you want, you could kip in my room. My roommate went home for the weekend, so. There’s no one in there.”

Louis chews on his lip. While waiting the storm out alone will likely be awful, he will at least be free to bury his face in pillows without anyone questioning him. And if those pillows happen to smell like Harry, well - it couldn’t hurt.

“I might,” Louis finally says.

“Just take my bed,” Harry hiccups. “I’ll sleep in Jeff’s bed, he won’t care.”

“Thanks,” Louis murmurs.

Another rumble of thunder echoes across the black sky, louder this time.

“Strange,” says Zayn, “It’s so late in the season for thunderstorms.”

“Maybe God was rooting for Shrewsbury,” Liam says, which pulls laughs from all of them.

\--

The clock next to Harry’s bed says that it’s only been an hour since Louis gathered up a pair of dry joggers and a t-shirt from his room, changed in a bathroom stall, and buried himself under Harry’s duvet, but it feels like it’s been several days.

The storm is relentless - wind whips against the old windows, throwing rain at the glass in powerful bursts every few seconds. The thunder is so loud that Louis wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the sky is actually cracking open. Lightning illuminates the room so brightly every minute or so that he can see every detail of the band posters Harry has hanging above his bed.

Harry’s pillows and blankets look just like Louis’s pillows and blankets, but they smell like the clean, kind of cedar-y Harry scent that mesmerized Louis each time they had a snog. He had thought that the scent would comfort him. He was wrong. Because now he is dealing with both his heart beating wildly from sheer panic, and also the perception that his skin is on fire because he is currently _in Harry’s bed_.

He curls himself tightly into a ball and tugs the duvet over his head. The air around him immediately feels hot and stuffy, but the sound of the wind and rain is muffled. If he closes his eyes, he can block out most of the lightning.

Panic shoots though his body when he hears an unfamiliar creaking sound. His immediate (albeit irrational) thought is that the walls have been torn off and that he is about to be sucked into a funnel of death, but a second click tells him that it was just the door.

He hears Harry moving around quietly as though he’s trying not to wake Louis. There’s a rustling of fabric, and the fire on Louis’s skin burns several degrees hotter at the idea of Harry stripping _in the same room_ as him with nothing but a blanket and tightly clamped eyelids preventing Louis from seeing him.

A particularly loud burst of thunder snaps him out of that line of thinking rather effectively, however. His whole body flinches so hard that he makes the bed squeak.

There’s a pause from the other side of the duvet bubble. “Lou?”

Louis peels back one of the corners of the blanket just enough so that he can peek at Harry, who is standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. His pale skin is illuminated by a crack of lightning, which both thrills and terrifies Louis. He screws his eyes shut, wishing internally that he could be normal about this, but he’s too drunk and tired and scared to do much about it.

“Shit,” Harry says.

Louis opens his eyes and sees Harry’s face drawn with concern. Harry moves closer, and before Louis can protest, Harry is sliding his long legs under the duvet.

“What are you doing?” Louis rasps, his throat dry.

Harry doesn’t respond - he pries the duvet away from Louis shoulders and distributes it evenly over them, smoothing out the bunches that Louis had been clutching in his hands. They’re both tucked in up to their shoulders, lying on their sides facing each other with several centimeters of space between them. Harry moves to adjust the pillow under their heads and then lays back down, watching Louis carefully with wide eyes.

Another clap of thunder rattles the window in its old, rusty frame. Louis trembles involuntarily, and Harry bites his lip. Then his arms are snaking around Louis. Harry reels him in and presses him gently to his warm, bare expanse of a chest. Louis hesitates for a moment, but the prickly sensation of fear is dissipating from his muscles the longer Harry holds him. So he relaxes into it, resting his cheek against Harry’s chest and moving his legs to tangle with Harry’s. He lets out a long breath. He feels Harry’s nose moving through his hair.

“Okay?” Harry whispers.

“Yes,” Louis whispers back.

After a few minutes of forgetting himself and his fear in the pounding of Harry’s heartbeat in Louis’s ear, he shifts up so that his face is even with Harry’s. Harry gives him a smile.

Louis can’t help it - he reaches up and gently presses his finger into Harry’s dimple, feeling the way it deepens when Harry’s smile expands. He traces Harry’s cheekbones lightly with his fingers, moves his thumb down along his jaw and then slides it down to press gently on the pulse point in Harry’s neck. It’s calming, feeling Harry’s pulse fluttering so close to him. The thunder might be miles away by now - Louis can’t tell anymore.

Harry simply watches him, eyes full of wonder. He traces gentle patterns on Louis’s spine over his shirt. No one has ever looked at Louis the way Harry is right now. Not in his whole life, let alone when Louis is hiding from thunderstorms like a five-year-old.

“I’m sorry I’m such a baby,” Louis whispers.

Harry shakes his head against the pillow, a frown creasing his face. Louis traces the line that appears between his eyebrows.

“You’re not a baby, Lou,” he whispers back. “You’re wonderful.”

And then Harry’s lips are on his, and everything is warm and soft and lovely, and the last of the coiled fear in his veins disappears. He rakes his fingers through Harry’s curls, still smooth and perfect even though they’ve been in the rain all day. Harry’s tongue tastes sharp and sweet when it sweeps through Louis’s mouth, the stinging remnants of the vodka he’d been drinking masked by some kind of sugary soda.

When Harry tugs on the hem of Louis’s t-shirt, Louis can’t come up with a single good reason why he shouldn’t have Harry’s hands on his skin right this very minute, so he pulls back, their lips separating with a wet smack, and pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it somewhere across the room without paying any attention to where it lands.

Harry is on him again as soon as he settles back down, licking gently into his mouth. His big hands stroke up and down Louis’s now-bare back, then move around to grip his biceps and slide down his arms. Louis’s skin is tingling. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it seems like Harry wants to touch him everywhere he can, with the way he spreads his fingers and slides them along Louis’s skin so slowly, so reverently. It feels like Harry is on a mission to leave no part of him untouched.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s back and pulls him in, wanting to be closer, wanting to feel Harry’s skin against his. He slides one of his thighs in between Harry’s legs, not wanting to push things further, but simply wanting to be as close to Harry as he can. Harry cradles him, his hands wandering down the slope of Louis’s spine as their chests press together, Louis able to feel Harry’s ribs expand each time he takes a breath.

They stay like that for hours, wrapped up in each other, while the rain pours outside and the thunder moves away. Louis falls asleep in Harry’s arms, thinking of nothing but gentle kisses and gentle touches and gentle whispers in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrical references in this chapter:**
> 
> _[Come and Get Your Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkr77jE5GFY)_ by Redbone  
>  _[Dancing in the Dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DIWYSjMjckw)_ by Kim Wilde
> 
> **Historical references in this chapter:**   
>  [UK HIV & AIDS History](http://www.avert.org/uk-hiv-aids-history-1981-1995.htm)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more of an interlude than past ones - a lot of setting up important parts of the story with some fluff thrown in. (Just a heads up: Louis's family is slightly different than you might be used to.)
> 
> Enjoy! (Also, sorry it took forever to post, but hopefully the sheer length will make up for it.)

_**November, 1985** _

Louis rakes a hand through his sleep-mussed hair as he shoulders the door to his room open, his still-damp football kit an unsightly lump under his arm. He tosses it on the ground near last week’s uniform trousers. Zayn glances up at him through absurdly long lashes, and it’s only then that Louis pauses to take in the scene in front of him.

On the floor, scattered amongst Louis’s discarded laundry from the past week, are several empty beer bottles, one empty handle of Vladivar, a few cans of Tango, and some of Louis’s tea mugs, which appear to be dirty with something sticky and pink.

Zayn is kneeling on his bare mattress, dressed in nothing but red boxers and a paint-streaked white t-shirt. His sheets and duvet are piled on the desk. A few open cans of brightly colored paint surround Zayn’s legs, and Louis can see a couple places where he must have spilled during previous painting sessions, the brown-and-yellow stains of the old mattress mixed with faded bursts of blues and greens. He’s facing the wall, staring at Louis in the doorway, with his brush centimeters from the wall, orange clinging to its bristles.

“‘Morning,” Louis says, his voice coming out hoarse and scratchy.

Zayn nods at him, and then he turns back to the wall, sweeping his brush in a long arc.

Louis collapses backward onto his own bed. He stares up at the blank, off-white ceiling above him, and tries to block out his thoughts with the soft, rhythmic sounds of Zayn’s brush against the wall.

 

He’d woken up much like any other day, at first - warm and cozy, the fog of sleep making everything in his brain light and relaxing. That was before he’d blinked his eyes open and remembered where he was - remembered that he’d fallen asleep snogging Harry. **  
**

That in itself wasn’t so bad, but when he’d opened his eyes, he’d been made fully aware of Harry’s curls in his face, obscuring his vision, floating up his nose. His arm had fallen asleep under Harry’s ribs, and his legs were tangled up with Harry’s. All of that combined was probably what gave Louis the most uncomfortable, bordering on painful, erection he’d ever experienced in his life.

And it was pressed right up against Harry’s arse.

He’d panicked, of course, and scrambled out of bed with little to no finesse, sliding off the foot of the bed and wandering around the room looking for his shirt. Harry had looked so enticing when he blinked his eyes open, only his head and shoulders visible above the duvet. He looked warm and cozy and snoggable. His hair was spread out around his head against the white pillows and Louis wanted to tangle his fingers in it and bury his face in it and forget that anything else existed.

“Hi,” Harry had said, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Hey,” Louis had responded, smiling and holding his shirt in front of his crotch in what he had hoped was a casual manner. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“S’okay. Are you leaving?”

“Yeah.” Louis had felt guilt tugging at his heart, his whole body begging him to climb back into the comforting cocoon of warmth and Harry that he’d just abandoned. “Sorry. I’ve just got a few things to take care of today.”

“Okay,” Harry had said, allowing his eyes to drift closed as he spoke. “Bye, Lou.”

“See you, H,” he had responded. He’d stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, watching Harry’s breaths even out, memorizing the way his eyelashes cast shadows against his cheekbones.

And then, because he was beginning to feel like a creep, he’d tugged his shirt on and left, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could manage.

 

“I’m still blank,” Louis says, blinking up at his ceiling. **  
**

He hears Zayn’s brushstrokes pause. “I told you,” Zayn replies. “You’re complicated.”

Louis doesn’t respond.

“How was your night?” Zayn asks. “Get enough sleep?”

Louis swallows the excess saliva that suddenly floods his mouth. Complicated. Right. “Yeah, was good. Sorry I missed the rest of the party.”

“No worries. We didn’t do much - just finished off the vodka and had a few laughs.”

The room goes quiet again, though it’s the comfortable silence that Louis has become used to with Zayn. He turns his head to watch as the colors on Zayn’s wall become deeper and more pronounced as Zayn layers more paint over them.

\--

_**December, 1985** _

“Who’s it he’s talking to, then?” Zayn says, his head appearing suddenly between Louis and Liam’s.

Liam is sandwiched between Harry and Louis on one of the sofas in the common room. All of the seats by the television were taken by a group of students watching some Christmas special. So the three of them decided to watch Niall instead. He’s talking on one of the communal phones, gesturing energetically.

“A girl from Trinity that he met at Halloween,” Harry replies.

“Pass us a crisp, would you?” Louis says to Harry, who’s holding the bag. He passes it to Louis with a dimpled smile, one that Louis thinks he should be used to by now, but it still makes his stomach squirm.

Zayn sits down in front of the sofa, slightly between Liam and Louis. Louis feels Liam stiffen when Zayn pulls his arm back to open his bag and brushes his elbow against Liam’s leg.

Louis wishes he hadn’t noticed. He goes back to watching Niall.

“How d’you think it’s going?” Zayn asks. He’s pulled out his philosophy book. It’s open on his lap.

Louis thinks for a moment. “Well, it’s Niall, so. Probably not terribly smoothly.”

Niall doesn’t appear to realize that he’s got an audience. He’s talking quietly enough that they can’t hear what he’s saying, but he is bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

Liam flips the page of the textbook lying open across his lap, sending a soft puff of air through Zayn’s carefully-constructed quiff. “I’m not ready for this,” he groans.

Louis glances down at the book - an old, worn copy of a maths textbook with graphite equations smeared and faded along the margins. “Exam tomorrow?” he asks.

Liam nods. Niall laughs loudly at something none of them can hear, gesturing wildly with one arm as he speaks into the receiver. He’s either trying to get in some exercise or attempting to land a small plane.

End-of-term exams are looming on the horizon, but Louis is too caught up in the holiday atmosphere to focus on academia. All that he could think about yesterday was Harry’s festive navy jumper with the white deer prancing on the front. Harry had stopped by Zayn and Louis’s dorm after his last class, his nose and cheeks tinted pink from the cold, a few flakes of snow caught in his curls.

Louis had had to spend some alone time in the shower stall after that. Which was so incredibly bizarre. Who gets turned on by a fucking Christmas jumper?

Liam and Harry had taken it upon themselves to decorate the common room, as well. They put up at least three Christmas trees, a handful of wreaths, and garlands of hollyberries. How is Louis supposed to revise for his exams when, at any moment, he might find himself under the mistletoe in the main hallway with Harry? How is he supposed to think about applying to university when there are fairy lights sending spots of color dancing on Harry’s porcelain skin?

It isn’t surprising, then, that he finds himself in the middle of his history exam, reading a question several times over without actually understanding any of the words.

Fortunately, it’s an essay exam, meant to assess where he’s at in this A-level. Louis is nothing if not a good bullshitter, so, even though 99% of his mental capacity is taken up with Harry’s face and jumpers, he’s pretty sure he’ll get by.

Actually, in the end, he’s one of the first to finish up. He has to wait to be dismissed, however, so he takes some time to stare out of the window at the gently falling snow. This is his second-to-last exam before the Christmas hols. He’s starting to get excited for his mum’s cooking and seeing the girls. It’s been ages.

There’s about seven minutes until the end of the exam when the headmaster walks into the classroom. Louis glances over, his stomach filling suddenly with lead. He gets weird around authority figures - always automatically running through a mental list of all the potentially punishment-worthy things he’s done recently whenever he sees a headmaster or police officer or anyone in charge.

For once, though, he comes up short. He hasn’t done one thing in the past month or so that could get him into any trouble, hasn’t so much as pulled the fire alarm under false pretenses.

He doesn’t know whether he should be proud or ashamed.

As it turns out, the headmaster (a short, rotund bald man with a bushy beard) has come in to speak with Ardmore about the AIDS fundraiser. Louis, with nothing better to do except watch Rodgers chew on the eraser-end of his pencil, listens into their whispered conversation.

“I’ve set aside the refectory for February the 15th,” the headmaster says.

“Excellent,” Ardmore replies. He jots something down into the diary on his desk. “Now that we’ve nailed down a date, I think the rest of the preparations should fall into place.”

“Nasty business, isn’t it? AIDS?” Headmaster Pearce mutters. “You know, my old colleague from Harrow recently had to let go one of his teachers.”

“Oh?” Ardmore replies. “Was he…infected?”

“He didn’t have AIDS, no, but he was, well, you know,” the headmaster shakes his head. “They’re just everywhere. Rather frightening, really.”

Louis can’t understand why this happens every time he eavesdrops.

When the bell rings, he hurriedly hands in his exam and flees the classroom. Just one more to go and he’s free, blissfully free, for three weeks. Three weeks away from Harry and his dimples and he’ll probably be able to figure out what the fuck is going on with all that.

He’ll hopefully be able to get a grip in that time as well...

His last exam of the term is for his literature class. This is perhaps the only one that he feels well-prepared for. He breezes through the questions. As Holbrook collects everyone’s assignments when the final bell rings, he asks Louis to stay for a few minutes.

“See you later, Li?” Louis says to Liam, who nods. They’ve made plans with the boys to hang out in Louis and Zayn’s room tonight before everyone leaves tomorrow.

“I wanted to talk to you about something before you go on break,” Holbrook says once everyone has left the classroom. He gestures for Louis to take a seat at one of the desks. Holbrook leans against his own desk, looking serious. Louis adjusts his tie.

“I’ve been speaking with a friend of mine,” Holbrook continues. “He’s head of the literature department at Cambridge.” Louis nods to show he’s following along, but he has no idea where this might be going. “He always asks me to keep an eye out for promising students that might do well in his program. So I’ve been speaking to him about you.”

“What?” Louis says, more forcefully than necessary. “Sorry, sir, I mean - excuse me?”

Holbrook smiles. “I don’t want you to feel pressured in any way, Mr. Tomlinson. I don’t mean to be stodgy and I do know that Oxbridge isn’t for everyone. But I truly think you would be an excellent candidate for the program. You’re bright and, really, quite a good writer.”

“I don’t, er, I don’t know what to say,” Louis says. He’d be lying if he said he’d given his plans for the future a lot of thought. He’d mostly been focusing on making it through this year unscathed. After college, well, he always thought he’d have time to sort it out.

“All that I’m saying is that I think you should apply,” Holbrook continues. “It’s worth having options. If you work on this application over the holiday, I will be sure to compose one hell of a reference for you.” He picks up a manila folder from his desk and hands it to Louis. At a glance, Louis can tell that the folder is full of leaflets about Cambridge. There’s also a copy of the admissions application.

“Th-thank you,” Louis stammers. He feels numb, his extremities tingling. He wobbles a little when he stands to leave. “Happy Christmas, sir.”

“See you next term, Mr. Tomlinson.” Holbrook’s blue eyes are twinkling.

\--

“I’m really g-going to miss you.”

“Don’t get weird, Nialler,” Louis says, patting a teary-eyed Niall on the back. “It’s three weeks, not three years.”

“Maybe you don’t need this?” Zayn says, gently prying Niall’s ninth bottle of beer out of his hands.

Harry has just passed around his Christmas gifts for everyone - a leather-bound notebook and fountain pen for Liam, a pack of Bensons and a new lighter for Zayn, a mixtape for Louis, and the newest Iron Man comic for Niall, which has reduced Niall to a sobbing mess.

Louis hadn’t thought to get anyone Christmas presents. With everything else going on, generosity had slipped his mind. Luckily he’d recently bought a bottle of gin, and he’d presented it to the group as though he’d bought it specifically for Christmastime purposes. Niall had brought beer for everyone, had even stuck a clumsily-tied red bow on the case to make it festive. Liam said that his present was not reporting them for drinking in the dry dorms, but he’d also given each of them a Christmas card and a bag of sweets. Zayn had also given them all Christmas cards, but he had painted them himself on thick paper.

Louis leans over a sniffling Niall to tuck his presents into the bag that he’d packed to take home with him. His head is swimming. Perhaps he’s had too much to drink as well.

Harry and Zayn are sitting on the floor of Louis and Zayn’s dorm, quietly discussing Zayn’s artwork. Liam is nodding off on Zayn’s bed, leaning back against the colorful wall. Louis is sitting on his own bed with his arm around Niall, and he thinks (and maybe this is the gin talking) about how lovely this is. Harry’s in another Christmas jumper (this one green with massive snowflakes), Zayn’s eyes are bright and alive because he’s talking about his passion. Liam is comfortable and quiet and not making anyone run suicides. And Niall, fucking ray of sunshine that he is, is crying about how thoughtful Harry is.

Even though everyone is within walking distance to their own beds, when Liam passes out on Zayn’s bed, it’s taken as a sign that they should all just sleep in Louis and Zayn’s room.

Liam is drooling on his pillow, though Louis doubts that Zayn will care much about this. In fact, Zayn just removes Liam’s shoes, puts them neatly side-by-side on the floor, and covers Liam up with his duvet.

Harry flips off the light, and then stretches out on the floor next to where Zayn has settled. Louis wishes he could lie down on the floor with Harry and bury his face in that adorable jumper.

“Don’t think about trying anything,” Louis whispers to Niall. They’re lying shoulder-to-shoulder on Louis’s narrow bed.

“Did I tell you she said she’d come to the match at the start of next term?” Niall’s words are slurring together. He’s referring to the girl he’d been talking to on the phone earlier that week.

“Only a hundred times,” Louis says with a yawn.

“She’s so nice,” sniffles Niall. “And Harry’s so nice. And you’re nice.”

Louis turns onto his side and looks over the edge of his bed to find Harry looking back up at him. They’re both biting back grins.

“Is that so?” Louis mutters.

Niall snores loudly in reply.

\--

The next morning is a scramble.

Louis wakes up with Niall practically spooning him, his leg thrown over both of Louis’s, his arm draped over Louis’s chest. Louis’s own arm is dangling off of the end of the bed, inches away from Harry’s sleeping form.

“Shit,” Liam says. He sits up. “Shit.”

Zayn shushes him.

“It’s nearly nine o’clock!” Liam shouts. He grabs Zayn’s alarm clock off of his bedside table and shoves it in Zayn’s face.

“Shit,” Zayn sits up, turns a strange shade of pale green, and then immediately lies back down. “Shit,” he echoes. “How much did we drink last night?”

“Mmmf,” says Niall.

Louis doesn’t think that he can move.

“Our parents are going to be here in thirty minutes!” Liam sprints from the room, forgetting his shoes on the floor by the end of Zayn’s bed.

After a few moments of wordless moaning, Zayn rolls upright, grabs Liam’s shoes and shuffles from the room to return them. Niall clambers over Louis, mumbles something about still needing to pack, and disappears out of the door.

Louis watches Harry breathe in and out.

“Haz?” Louis says. He leans out of his bed, propping himself up on one arm. He shakes Harry’s shoulder with his free hand. “Hazza?”

Harry blinks his eyes open. Louis has a strong urge to kiss his eyelids.

“It’s nine o’clock. We should get up.”

When he sits up, Harry kisses Louis quickly on the cheek. “Good morning, Lou,” he whispers, and Louis feels as though he’s melting into his mattress. He looks into Harry’s gorgeous, kind eyes and he kind of wants to stay like this.

Their gaze breaks when Zayn shuffles back into the room, a scowl plastered onto his face.

“I’m going to go and grab my things,” Harry says. He slips quietly from the room as Zayn collapses onto his bed.

“I’m never drinking again,” Zayn sighs.

“Sure,” Louis replies. How many times have they made that declaration? “How long can we stay in bed for and not be late?”

Zayn glances over at his clock. “Fifteen minutes.”

Twenty minutes later, wrapped in thick coats, scarves, gloves, and hats, Louis and Zayn meet Liam, Harry, and Niall in the common room. Together, they trudge outside, through the falling snow, toward the east carpark.

Zayn immediately lights up a cigarette. Liam is walking in front, listing out loud all of the things that he’s packed to make sure that he didn’t forget anything. Niall keeps gathering snow to make snowballs, which he’s throwing in random directions, at nothing in particular.

Louis and Harry lag behind, walking side-by-side.

“Aren’t you excited for Christmas?” Harry asks. “I love this time of year.”

Louis shrugs. He misses his sisters like mad, and his mum. Still, it’s been a while since he’s been home, even longer since he hadn’t spent every minute of that time at home being berated by his stepfather for being a fuck up.

Christmas reminds him of awkward dinners and feeling guilty.

“I think my favorite is Christmas Eve,” Harry muses. He scratches his nose with a mittened hand. “It’s just, like, the anticipation that’s so fun. And the hot chocolate before bed, of course.”

“My birthday is on Christmas Eve,” Louis says without meaning to.

Harry’s eyes light up. “Really?”

Louis nods. Then, suddenly, Harry grabs Louis’s hand and pulls him quickly behind the building they’ve been walking past, the one closest to the east carpark. Harry makes sure they’re properly hidden from view, leading Louis to the space between a large pine tree and the stone classroom building.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Styles.” _What are we doing?_ Louis’s feet are freezing in his shoes, his socks now damp from the snow he’s standing in. He hardly notices.

“I know,” Harry bites his bottom lip. “But I feel like I’ll go mad if I don’t kiss you again. Three weeks is a long time.”

Louis glances around at the snowy, barren corner of the campus Harry has dragged them to. He steps forward, unable to tear his gaze from where Harry's teeth are pressing against the pink skin of his lip now that he is sure they're alone. He takes Harry by the shoulders and pushes him gently backwards, until Harry's back is resting against the rough stone wall of the old building.

Harry grins dopily at him, and Louis can think of one particularly good way to shut him up. He goes for it, capturing Harry's bitten-red lips with his own. The chilled air seems to have chapped Harry's lips, their texture swollen and slightly dry, and it's just about the most endearing thing Louis has ever experienced. He makes it his mission to soothe Harry's lips with the warmth of his own mouth.

Harry goes boneless with the kiss, sinking into it, his head lolling on his neck as he chases Louis's tongue with his own. Louis has his hands braced on the wall on either side of Harry's head, and the stones are rough and cold even through his gloves, and Louis has never cared less about anything. He tries to absorb enough of Harry's loveliness in this one moment to last him through New Year's.

When they separate, Harry's lips look even more swollen, but he is smiling at Louis with stars in his eyes.

“Oi, gents, where the fuck are you?” Niall yells from the other side of the tree.

“CanIcallyoumaybe?” Harry says abruptly.

“Sorry, what?” Louis has started making a snowball to throw at Niall.

“Over break, can I, um, call you?” Harry’s staring at his shuffling feet.

Louis and Harry are both blushing. Louis is certain that his face is hot enough to melt the snow still floating down around them. His snowball drops from his gloved hand.

“Sure,” he says quietly. “Sure.” He extracts a pen from his bag as Harry rolls up the sleeve of his coat and the shirt underneath. With shaking hands, Louis writes down his telephone number on Harry’s forearm. Harry blows on the ink when Louis is done, then carefully rolls back down his sleeves.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Louis dashes away as his heart races. He quickly forms another snowball as he goes, his bag bouncing off his knees.

What results is a five-minute snowball fight near the east carpark. Louis is, of course, victorious. Niall is practically dripping by the end of it. Fortunately, no one’s parents have shown up right on time - most likely delayed by the snow.

Louis’s mum is the first to arrive. He can hear her car rattling as it comes up the drive. He knows his friends well enough now that he isn’t embarrassed that she drives an ancient Escort.

"Hi, love," she says when she spots him, stepping out of her car and into a snowbank. She's completely engulfed in her long coat, the hood pulled over her head, and she's smiling at Louis with flushed cheeks.

"Hi, Mum," Louis replies, abandoning his bag on the sidewalk and stepping into the snowbank to throw himself into her arms. Her coat is puffy and the material feels strange against his cheek, but as soon as she embraces him he feels buckets of tension draining from his muscles. "Missed you."

"I’ve missed you too, Lou," she says, tugging his beanie off to drop a kiss into his hair.

He steps away from her, finally, turning to retrieve his bag. The lads are all standing around, pointedly looking in different directions as though trying to give Louis privacy.

"See you soon, boys," Louis grins as he hoists his rucksack over his shoulder. "Have a nice holiday!"

"Stay out of trouble," Liam says, but he's smiling.

Zayn smirks around his cigarette. When he slides it out from between his lips and exhales a little puff of smoke, he says, "Happy Christmas, Lou."

Niall steps forward and flings his arms around Louis's shoulders, draping his stocky body around Louis's and sighing loudly. Louis smiles into Niall's shoulder and loops an arm around him and sort of pats his head with his other hand.

"I'll miss you," Niall says solemnly as he steps back.

"Me too," Louis says. "Take care, Nialler. Don't drink Ireland out of Guinness before term starts."

Niall snorts in response.

When Louis turns to say his goodbye to Harry, Harry's watching him with his big doe eyes. He’s giving Louis a smile that turns his whole face into a book full of the things neither of them can say out loud. Louis can read all of it, and he tries to convey as much when he meets Harry's eyes.

"Bye, Harry," he says. "Happy Christmas."

Harry's smile grows. "Happy birthday, Louis."

Louis turns back to his Mum, his bag swinging off one shoulder. He heaves it into the boot and then slides into the passenger's seat. He’s hanging out of the open window, waving at the lads until the car crests hill and he can’t see them anymore.

"Those are the friends you've talked about?" Louis's mum asks.

He nods. "Yeah. They're the lads."

"I think it's wonderful that you have such good friends at this school, Louis," she says, and it's so earnest and happy-sounding that Louis has to look away from her and stare out the window at the snow-coated tree branches and the little greeting-card-worthy village passing by.

“You really seem to be getting on at Westland,” his mother continues slowly. He knows that she’s thinking that this school must be different. After all, it’s the longest he’s stayed in one place.

“Yeah,” Louis replies and his mum drops it. She focuses instead on not killing them on the snow-covered motorway, and Louis is grateful.

As much as he loves his sisters, he’s glad his mum has come alone to get him. The pleasant calmness is giving him some needed space to think. Mostly about Harry’s chapped lips, though he’s also wondering what songs Harry included on the mixtape that he gave Louis for Christmas.

He turns on the radio and almost immediately changes the station because Wham! is singing Last Christmas and it’s put a lump in Louis’s throat. Because it reminds him of Liam. He can’t possibly be missing his friends already, can he?

The drive to Doncaster is a little less than three hours, and it goes by quickly and quietly. He and his mum don’t talk much, but Louis is enjoying just sharing the same space with her.

When they finally pull into the snow-covered drive to Louis’s childhood home, there are four gorgeous girls standing on the stoop in front of the door. They’ve got cardigans and boots pulled on over pajamas, all four faces shining brightly.

Louis doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve younger sisters that worship him. Perhaps it’s putting up with his stepfather.

Louis pushes the door open before his mum even has the car in park, and dashes up the icy walkway, the soles of his trainers sliding a bit with each stride. He bundles all four girls in his arms at once, their cries of excitement muffled by his inadequate canvas jacket. He kisses the tops of their heads one by one.

“Come on, now, girls,” says Louis’s mum, walking up behind him with his bag across her shoulder. “Let him inside.”

The five of them stumble through the front door as one tangled mass of Tomlinsons. Louis immediately feels more relaxed when he sees the familiar, picture-covered walls and well-loved furniture. There’s cross-stitch hangings from his gran, all right where he left them. The house smells faintly of pine from the tree in the sitting room. The tree is covered in all of the old ornaments - primarily homemade creations with a few glass angels chucked on for good measure.

Louis pries himself from his sisters’ hugs and gazes at each one of them individually.

Lottie, of course, is as blonde as ever, and almost as tall as Louis. She’s wearing a purple jumper with the name of the football team at her school near Bristol. They’re not in Westland’s league, so Louis lets it slide without comment.

Fizzy, the second oldest, has long brown hair down to her waist and an adorably uneven smile. His two smaller sisters, Phoebe and Daisy, have matching blonde hair and matching green pajamas...the same shade as...er...someone’s eyes.

Louis’s stomach sinks a little at the realization of just how far gone he is, but a moment later his stepdad comes strolling in through the kitchen and some of the warmth bubbling in his blood dissipates.

“Lou,” he nods, resting a hand possessively on Daisy’s shoulder.

“Hi, Dave,” says Louis, glancing from Dave’s unsmiling face to his own snowy trainers, which are leaving small puddles of slowly melting ice on the carpet.

“You made your mother carry your bag?” Dave asks.

Louis swallows thickly, but he feels a hand come to rest between his shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles. “No, love, he was just so excited to see the girls,” Louis’s mum explains. “I just grabbed it for him - it’s not heavy.”

Dave grumbles something Louis can’t hear, because he’s grabbed his bag from his mother and is now bounding up the stairs two at a time. He bursts into his bedroom, tosses the bag on his bed and pauses for a moment to watch it bounce impressively on the old mattress, and then tears back out of the room and down the hall.

He stops outside of a closed door at the very end of the hall, pressing his ear to the wood. He can hear soft sounds coming from the other side, so he slowly, carefully twists the knob and eases the door open.

A little boy with curly blonde hair is clutching at the railings of his crib, blinking at Louis with sleepy, surprised eyes.

“Ernie!” Louis sweeps across the room and scoops the little boy up. Ernie curls his tiny body up against Louis’s chest, resting his cheek against Louis’s collarbone. With his shirt slightly mussed from the toddler in his arms, Louis can feel Ernie’s eyelashes blinking slowly, brushing light tickles against his skin.

Louis spends the next hour in Ernie’s nursery, collecting his thoughts. He’s surprised and impressed that the girls keep their distance; he senses it’s his mother’s doing. Obviously, he’s thrilled to see them. But Dave has a way of souring the moments they spend together. It’s much nicer up here in the silence, rocking Ernie as he dozes back off against Louis’s chest.

Louis stares out the window at the snow that covers the back garden. By the time Ernie is awake enough to giggle at Louis for blowing into his curls, Lottie has appeared in the doorway.

“Mum wants you downstairs,” she tells him. “She’s made dinner.”

Lottie plucks Ernie out of Louis’s grasp and bounces him on her hip as she walks out of the room, her long hair flicking behind her as she goes. She turns just before she reaches the hallway, though, and says, “It’s really wonderful to see you, Lou.”

Louis kisses her on the forehead and then follows her down the stairs and into the dining room, where the table is set with what can only be described as a Full English. Louis’s plate is heaped with sausages, eggs, toast, tomatoes, and baked beans.

“Thought we’d have breakfast for dinner, love. I know it’s your favorite,” Louis’s mum says, beaming at him. “I can’t imagine you’ve had a proper fry-up recently.”

Louis shakes his head, stabbing his fork through one of his sausages. The girls are seating themselves around the table, Lottie sliding Ernie into his high chair and plopping a chopped-up piece of toast onto his tray.

“Reason being that you actually managed to spend more than two months at a school,” says Dave. He’s occupying the head of the table like it’s a throne. “This’ll be the first time since, what? Year eight?”

Louis frowns, swallowing a bite of egg. “I’m not sure,” he says. He’s shrinking down until he’s about six inches tall even though he knows Dave has a point.

Dave shakes his head at Louis, then shoots Phoebe a look for chewing with her mouth open. She promptly clamps her jaw shut. “We’ll have to see how long this one lasts,” he says. “Though so far, it’s set the record.”

Louis feels his blood rush to his face. He digs his fingernails into his kneecaps - the twinge of pain keeps him grounded. “I’m staying at Westland,” Louis says firmly. “I like it there. I, I’ve been volunteering.”

Dave scoffs. “For what? Drama club? Vandalism league?”

“Dave,” Louis’s mum says softly, “Come on, now. What are you volunteering for, Lou?”

“I helped with the First Years’ Social,” Louis says, his throat dry. “And the Head Boy is one of my best friends, so I’ve been - involved in some of the holiday parties.”

Dave raises his eyebrows so far that they disappear under his dark fringe, deep wrinkles appearing in his forehead. “I’m supposed to be excited that you’re volunteering for parties?”

“N-no,” says Louis, setting his fork down. “I’m - also-”

The girls are glancing up at him in between bites of food, and he can’t help but think about what their faces would look like if they knew what Louis keeps buried inside him.

“I’m helping with the AIDS fundraiser,” Louis chokes out, his words coming so quickly that they trip over each other.

Dave pauses, then nods, bringing his glass of water to his lips. “Well, that’s worthwhile, at least.”

“And, I’m - you already know I’m a starter on the football team,” Louis says to his lap.

“Yes, we do, baby, and we’re so sorry we didn’t make it to any of your games this term,” Louis’s mum says, her eyes wide and somber. “It’s just - there’s so much going on here, with all the girls in school -”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s not important.”

The table falls silent as they all continue to forge their way through a mountain of breakfast foods, though Louis can’t eat as much as he usually would. Every bite seems to weigh him down uncomfortably.

\--

Later that night, after what has to be his fifth or sixth viewing of _The Goonies_ with his sisters, Louis retreats to his bedroom. For a moment, he’s too small for the space. He’s gotten so used to Zayn’s constant presence that now he’s lost alone. The walls are plain, solid beige broken up only by his bedroom window, which overlooks the street in front of the house.

He extracts Harry’s mixtape from his bag and sinks down onto the chair at his desk. For the first time, he takes a look at the card Harry has slid through the plastic. The card lists the songs on each side of the tape in Harry’s tidy scrawl. There’s some Cat Stevens, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Patsy Cline. Typical Harry.

The last song on Side B gives Louis a jolt.

_Come and get your love_.

Louis shoves the tape into a desk drawer, slams the drawer shut, and jumps into his bed, covers pulled up over his head. He knows he is foolish for hiding from an inanimate object, but he can’t listen to that tape. He’s afraid of what it might do to him to hear that song and remember that moment, Harry keeping him calm. He’s afraid of thinking too hard about how safe Harry made him feel.

He can’t think about what that might mean. It turns his insides to lava. Before he has the chance to spiral down a hole of panic, a gentle knock rattles his door.

“Yeah?” Louis throws the covers down so he can see.

Louis’s mum pokes her head in. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He sits up as his mum shuts the door behind her. She sits down next to them so that they’re side-by-side. “We really are proud of you, you know,” she says.

Louis shrugs.

“I’m serious!” She playfully bumps her shoulder against his. “You’ve been doing so well at Westland, love. And you seem happy there. You even had friends to send you off. One of them hugged you and everything!”

A smile tugs at Louis’s lips. “Niall. He gets a bit emotional.”

“And I’ve not got any calls about poor grades, so that means you’re doing well in your classes, too.” She drags her fingernails gently down Louis’s spine, sending pleasant tingles across his back.

Louis nods. “Yeah. I’m trying. My literature professor actually just told me he’s recommending me for this program at Cambridge, so that’s good, yeah?” And that’s a sentence he’d never dreamed of saying aloud.

Her hand stops moving along his back. “What?” 

Louis looks up at her. Her eyes are wide with surprise. “I don’t know much about it,” he confesses. “But he said that his friend is in charge of this program, and that he thinks I’d be a good fit.”

“Oh, my god,” his mum says, and then suddenly he’s being folded into her arms, his face pressed up against her shoulder. She’s rocking him gently and pressing kisses into his hair. Ordinarily he’d complain about being manhandled, but at the moment he feels too sleepy and calm.

“Lou, that’s amazing. I am so, so proud of you. Wait until I tell Dave,” she murmurs.

When she does tell Dave the following day, Louis is sitting in Ernie’s nursery again, reading to him from a _Berenstain Bears_ book. Dave slams in just as Ernie is starting to doze off against Louis’s chest. The sound of the door smacking against the wall has him stirring and whining again.

“Louis,” says Dave, “Is it true? What you told your mother?”

Louis bounces Ernie gently on his knee and sets the book down.

“Is what true?”

“You’re being recommended for a program at Cambridge?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Louis feels his hands start to shake slightly, and he tightens his grip on his brother to try to calm himself. Ernie squirms in response. “I haven’t applied yet, or anything. But yeah.”

Dave crosses the room and lifts Ernie out of Louis’s grasp. Ernie settles his head on Dave’s shoulder, and Louis blinks up at him from where he sits in the rocking chair. Dave has always had this way of towering over him.

“Louis,” he says, “I want you to know something.”

Louis stares at him, running his hands up and down his thighs in attempt to soothe his shaking now that he can’t squeeze Ernie.

“My father left me quite a sum of money when he passed,” Dave walks over to Ernie’s crib and sets him down.

Louis feels his stomach twist, much like when he knows he’s being reprimanded by a teacher but doesn’t yet know what he’s being reprimanded for.

“Really?” he says.

Dave nods, turning back to Louis and running a hand through his hair. “Your mother and I decided we’d save it for something important - like if the roof needed replacing, or if one of us lost our jobs.” He waves one hand over his shoulder, as though he’s brushing away the possibilities. “We live modestly, but comfortably. We didn’t want to use it on new cars or fancier clothes.”

Louis nods. His hands are even clammier now as he runs them along his jeans. Dave is looking at him openly and earnestly and Louis isn’t used to it - doesn’t understand it. He and Dave have always gotten along perfectly comfortably with their system of only acknowledging each other when absolutely necessary.

“I know you’ve never been one for academics,” he says, “and I know you’re not likely to get any scholarships. But - Christ. _Cambridge_.”

Louis stays still, the sound of his nervous breathing the only sound in the room, save for Ernie’s barely audible snores.

“I - I don’t know how this happened, to be honest,” Dave says. “I’m still not fully convinced that your professor isn’t taking the piss. But I’m promising you right now that if you actually pull this off, I will pay your tuition.”

Louis’s jaw drops open like he’s in a cartoon. “What?”

“Just keep it in mind,” Dave shrugs, his voice dropping to a whisper. He beckons Louis to leave the room with him and flips the light switch off.

\--

The next few days are a blur of watching telly with his family, kicking a ball about in his back garden with Lottie, and wondering what his mates are up to. He thinks about someone with curly hair more than he’d care to admit to himself - the more the phone stays silent, the more Louis’s brain seems intent on remembering how swollen and soft his chapped lips were on the last day before the holidays, and how the stones of the building felt under his hands.

Louis’s birthday has never been one of his favorite days. There’s nothing wrong with it, per se, but seeing as it is Christmas Eve and seeing as he’s got a hoard of younger siblings, the whole “Louis’s birth” aspect tends to get unintentionally overshadowed.

So, when he wakes up on the 24th, he stays in bed longer than usual. The smell of another fry-up finally lures him down stairs. He pulls on his Westland football jumper as he goes. He doesn’t know why Liam had an extra one, but he’s grateful now all the same as it’s rather chilly.

“Happy birthday, darling,” Louis’s mum says. She kisses his cheek as she sets his plate in front of him at the table along with a steaming mug of tea.

“Thanks, mum,” he says, tucking in. The only other person at the table with him is Ernie, who grins and smashes a tomato in his own hair in lieu of a “Happy Birthday” greeting.

His sisters make their way to breakfast as Louis is on his third helping of eggs, full to bursting but not ready to stop tasting the comfort that seeps out of each bite. The older two girls grumble half-hearted “Happy Birthdays” at him, sleep clinging to their eyes and hair. The twins fling their skinny arms around him and sing in his ears.

Thankfully he’s had enough tea to endure this excess of noise and energy. As it is, he feels quite a pleasant buzz as the girls kiss him on the cheeks and untangle their arms from around his neck.

When Dave arrives at the table, satisfied that the drive has been adequately cleared of snow, a small pile of gifts suddenly appears in front of Louis’s empty plate. He unwraps a new pair of trainers from Dave and his mum, a t-shirt bearing the name and crest of Lottie’s school, a keychain that is also a bottle opener from Fizzy, several drawings of himself and a few pairs of football socks from the twins, and his very own red Walkman from Ernie.

He can’t help but beam happily at them all as the girls move to start clearing plates and help their mum with Christmas tea preparations. (Louis always gets a pass - it’s his birthday, after all.) He scoops up his gifts and takes them up to his room. He sets everything down on his bed. The digital clock next to his bed flicks to 2pm.

Louis frowns, an itch blossoming beneath his skin. He moves to his desk and yanks the top drawer open. Harry’s mixtape is calling to him amidst a slew of rubber bands, paper clips, and old progress reports from various schools. He stares at it for a few moments, then picks it up. He flips it over to read the track names again. Then, before he can think too much more about it, he tears open the packaging to his new Walkman and pops the tape inside.

He finds a pair of headphones in another desk drawer, some of the plastic above one of the ears held together with sellotape.

Throwing open the window to get rid of the stale air in his bedroom, he breathes deeply. The fresh air is crisp and cold and liberating, and he doesn’t really care that a few large flakes of snow float in.

He lies down on his bedroom floor, pulling a crochet blanket along with him. Another deep breath, then he presses play.

_I go out walkin’, after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like we used to do._

He is definitely, hopelessly, bloody pathetic.

Now all he can think about is kissing Harry in the moonlight on Bonfire Night. Kissing Harry in the snow the day they’d left school. Harry’s hands on Louis’s back, on his stomach, in his hair.

_I go out walkin’, after midnight_   
_Out in the starlight, just hoping you may be_   
_Somewhere a-walkin’, after midnight_   
_Searchin’ for me._

Fireworks explode behind his closed eyes. All he can see Harry, starry-eyed and beautiful the night they’d shared a bed.

Louis isn’t sure if he dozes off, or if the music Harry picked for him makes his brain turn to mush. But the next thing he’s conscious of is the door to his bedroom banging open loudly enough for him to hear over the music in his ears. A blonde whirlwind tears across the room and peers down at him - Lottie. She pulls one side of the headphones away from Louis’s ears.

“Phone’s for you,” she says. “Some boy called Harry Styles?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrical references in this chapter:**
> 
> _[Walkin' After Midnight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiKsAuv7O7c)_ by Patsy Cline

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more, if you like.


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